Lion:Unicorn
by Garmonbozia
Summary: Four years before they met, Jim sends Britain crashing into lawlessness, while Sherlock is just trying not to crash. And while one of them fights to protect his anonymity, the other might get to learn who he is. That's if well-meaning cops, Mycroft's ambitions and withdrawal paranoia don't get in the way. - A sequel to Holmes:Moriarty. Rated for violence, language, upcoming content
1. Selfish:Selfless

Sherlock

I suppose there are probably a great many people in the world who are worse off than me right now. There must be refugees starving somewhere. Children living on rubbish tips. Miners with lungs full of coal dust, former asbestos handlers, cancer patients, assault victims, trafficked prostitutes, any living being whose business brings it into contact with my brother, the list goes on. Undoubtedly there are a great many people in the world who are in far, far worse positions than me, suffering depths of shame and abject misery that have yet to even suggest themselves to me. Undoubtedly.

And I honestly could not care one atom less about them.

It _hurts_, do you understand? Not like any former withdrawal either, because those were temporary. Whether caused by lack of funds or laziness, it was only ever a matter of time before I could score again and it would be over. But now it just _hurts_. It hurts _all_ the time. Even more sickening than the sickness itself is the fact that it's _supposed_ to hurt. I'm supposed to be grateful that it hurts. Gets worse before it gets better, isn't that what they say? They talk bollocks when they say that kind of thing. It's not getting any better. They talk absolute bollocks.

Oh, and that's the worst of it; it's robbed me of all eloquence. It took me most of last Thursday just to reconstruct the phrase 'robbed of all eloquence'. Still, it passed the time. Last Thursday was bad. Last Thursday I was dressed and ready, had the money in my hand and got as far as they end of the street before I made myself turn around again. Then I sat in and tried to put all the separate, shattered words back into some semblance of order again. They don't want to form up anymore. I have to prepare myself if I want to speak with any coherence.

It's not my fault. My brain still works. As well as it always did. Better, in fact, without that old haze, without constantly having to think about how long since the last hit and where I can go for the next one. I'm on fine bloody form I just can't _do_ anything about it. Not that I ever could. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if that's why I went on the junk in the first place, but I don't remember, exactly.

For instance, I can't watch the news. Can't walk into a shop that sells newspapers. Granted, yes, most of the headlines are scandal or politics or disaster and there's nothing to really guess at.

But sometimes the stories are mysteries. Well, mysteries to those telling the stories. Like the one last week, maybe you heard about it, about the missing cash at a bank that had no indication of having been robbed? God, it was awful... Not the money, I don't mean _that_ was awful; banks really ought to expect it, they make such targets of themselves. No, what was awful was watching the news, sitting listening to that bimbo anchorwoman spew copy from the autocue, completely unaware she was telling the whole world everything they needed to know.

It was the cleaning lady, by the way. If you can still find it anywhere, watch the CCTV footage they showed on Five News; she's not doing it in that particular stretch of film, but those are the precise circumstances during which she can grab two thin handfuls from the counter and use them to pad her bra. No more than half a cup-size, for safety, but it all adds up. But what could I do? A call to the police. To, as the really _very_ friendly lady on the phone told me, _register my concern_. Anything stronger than that and I would have ended up in an interview room myself.

I can't afford that at the moment. Mycroft would find me and I'm avoiding him.

Oh, and don't judge me for resorting to Five News either; I had only hoped it might be vacuous enough not to torture me. I end up _throwing_ things at BBC... But that's exactly my point; what use is knowing and understanding and being able to put it all together if you can't make that knowledge _useful_?

All my life, growing up, I was referred to at home as a 'font of useless information'. And I took great exception to that because when I was young and relatively stupid, I believed that all information was useful, in its context. And the only way to make sure you were prepared when the context came around was to know everything you possibly could. I was good at it too, I was a bloody excellent student of how to know everything.

Look where it's gotten me.

Do you know what I'm doing today? To make the time go in and to try and find a place where there is _nothing_ to think about? I'm cleaning between the bathroom tiles, one scrupulous inch at a time. Look where knowing everything has gotten me.

It hurts. More than the muscle cramps and the shaking and the gastric disturbance and the brutal, degrading resurgence of a crushed libido and all the other hideous side-effects of making the shift from junkie to 'real person', it hurts. Do you understand? To be in this world and see it all with absolute clarity, and be able to do nothing about it? It's like having all the books in the world and nothing to read.

Do you...? No. No, you don't. How could you?

* * *

Jim

I need to find a new dry-cleaners. Again. There's only so many times you can bear up under the same narrow, suspicious eyes before the thought creeps into your head, _He thinks I'm a serial killer_. I'm looking at Mr Po now and thinking it's a shame to move on. He's very good at his job. And he's terrible at speaking English, so he hasn't been able to accuse me out loud yet, like the last one did.

The last one told me, in public, on a Saturday afternoon, how I seemed to spill an awful lot of cranberry juice. But until today, Mr Po has been able to keep his theories strictly private.

Why today? What's pushed him over the edge this time? Well, it could be the particular depth of the dried brown splatter on the cuffs of the shirt I'm dropping off. It could be, but he's seen that before. It could be the fact that this time I'm dropping off a woman's dress to, and this one with a large, sharp-edged tear in the body, another slash across the waist, as well as duplicates of the aforementioned splodges.

"My sister," I explain, clearly as I can. "Got mugged."

Well, it's half-true, really... The woman isn't my sister, but she was mugged. Well, she was attacked for an item of value she was carrying on her at the time. If that's your definition of mugged, she was mugged. Whether or not the muggers worked for Her Majesty or not really doesn't come into it. And if the item happened to be some high-level industrial espionage material of a military technology bent, that shouldn't matter either. We're talking about two men _mugging_ a _woman_ here. The world we live in, eh?

Anyway, Mr Po seems to accept my excuse... Sorry, _explanation_, he accepts my _explanation_. I move on to trying to make him understand I want separate tickets for the two items, but the same bill. He's not getting it. I lean in, and try not to do that thing where you just say the same thing only louder, but it's hard to resist.

"_My- sister-,_" I try, and Christ, I'm slowing down too... We're two sentences away from the fat tourist in his Man United shirt, burned all over and bawling, 'Uno Pint-oh-, por favor' over a Benidorm hotel bar...

Let's start over. "My sister will pick up her dress. But I'm paying for it, okay?"

Why? If you're smart and you know me you're asking yourself why the hell I'm getting the tab.

"Okay," says Mr Po, complete with the little thumb-and-forefinger sign that means the same thing. But until I've got two of his little green raffle tickets in my hand I'm holding my breath. "Your sister," he goes on, as he goes about writing up the details, "She is okay too?"

... What's your definition of _okay_? Because she's been all stitched up, she's conscious, she's on enough painkillers to leave the average Freesian happily humming 'Boogie Nights' to itself in the corner of the field. But she's not suffered any amnesia about the incident. She still remembers who it was that said to her she'd be alright, that there'd be nobody on her tail, that she definitely shouldn't carry her gun with her, not even in that distasteful inside thigh way, because it would ruin the line of her dress.

I was getting blood on my cuffs and what was she doing? Not crying and writhing in pain, not cursing her attackers or the loss of what she'd stolen, not asking whether or not she'd live, oh no... No, she was glaring up at _me_ and saying, "Dress is ruined now, though, isn't it?"

"She's... a bit shaken," is how I put this to Mr Po. By some miracle he actually does put two tickets in my hand, though without explaining which is which. It's up to me to look over the counter and see which number matches my shirt. I put that one safely in my wallet and the other in my pocket and am _about_ to leave when he puts his hand on my sleeve.

"One moment please."

Oh, for God's sake... I knew it was too good to be true, that I'd managed to communicate those simple instructions almost first time. Christ knows what he's got coming for me. There's only so many ways _I_ can think of interpreting Two-Tickets-One-Bill, but this is _bound_ to be fecking interesting. And I'm not wrong, either; when he comes back I can already see something in his hand. It is, as far as I can tell, completely unrelated to anything we've been discussing. All I can see is a braided red string. The rest is in his palm and I'm sure this'll be fun...

But again, he surprises me. He's not even thinking about tickets and bills. He just holds this out to me, by the string, so I can see what looks like a small, lumpy white bead on the end of it. On closer inspection it's jade, and not lumpy, but carved. "What's this?"

He calls it something that sounds uncomfortable like 'killing'. Then adds, "For your sister. Will protect her."

He's still holding it out, and smiling all over his face like he really believes this. Would it be callous to point out that the time for 'protection' has come and gone? That would be callous, I probably shouldn't do that... Anyway, the frigging thing's just going to hang there until I take it, so I have to. Mr Po is practically glowing, like he really has done his bit for human existence with this little gesture. Well, fair play to him. Me and mine, life we lead? We can always use a fresh good luck charm.


	2. Black:With Milk

Jim

"It's a qilin," Danielle says. That's the word I mistook for 'killing'. _Qilin_. "Chinese unicorn." And she slips the red braid over her hand so the jade beast hangs like a bracelet charm.

"You're not actually wearing that?"

She shrugs. "Actually, you're right." Takes it off again and drops it into my pocket, "You need it more than me." Then, without warning, without so much as a perfunctory nod to the flow of conversation, changes the subject. "I can't _believe_ you said I was your sister. I have only _ever_ been fobbed off with 'sister' when 'girlfriend' was already in the room."

I'm not dignifying that with an answer. She's only saying it to be cruel, trying to embarrass me and I'm not giving her the pleasure. It's been two days since she was attacked and I'm still washing the memory of her blood off my hands at short intervals, so she's had all the vengeance on me she can really demand. She's hanging around my place with the bulge of the dressings under her blouse, making a big show of having to push herself up out of every chair; that's enough punishment without her having to humiliate me too, is it not?

Still, I suppose it's good that we've all gotten straight back to work. The wall in front of us is lit up with the projection of the floorplans for, oh, somewhere important I'm sure. There'll be something that needs to go missing and Danielle will be looking for the easiest exits and entrances and thinking of who she can delegate the job to while she heals.

…Must be Tuesday.

I leave her studying and turn towards the kitchen. Over her shoulder, "Black, no sugar." Yeah, I know how you take your coffee, love… Grumpy bitch.

I shout back, "Where's Moran?"

"Gone to be encouraging."

"Hm?"

"That Tory, the one who was going to take his ball and go home." Oh, aye, forgot about him… Here was a gentleman who failed to understand that, if a bad person gives you everything you ever wanted or dreamt of, you can't turn around and hand that person over. There was about five minutes yesterday morning where he could have brought everything crashing down around me. Forgot about him. Anyway, apparently Moran's taking care of it, so that's alright. We can move on to other business, Danielle calling through, "Have we heard anything more back on Ellen yet?"

"Who?"

A pause, while she rolls her eyes, mumbles to God to give her strength; I don't need to witness this to know it's happening. "The cleaning lady who drives a bloody Porsche."

"Oh. I don't think they've gotten her."

"We need to keep an eye on her. She's the kind to panic and tell all."

Nah. Her son works on an oil rig and she was told, in as many words, that he'd never come back from it if she did something silly like tell all. In as many words, she was told there wouldn't even be a drowned or charred or petroleum-soaked corpse home to bury. But she did so want that Porsche. And the electric gates on her driveway, woman was _obsessed_ with electric gates… So there's nothing to worry about there, either. That's why I didn't remember her name. That's why all of them, at the moment, are just coming and going, and the names aren't really sticking and… I don't know. It has to be something like oil rigs and electric gates for me to even remember anymore.

I make the coffees and bring them through. Danielle starts explaining what we're looking at and what the options are, using a laser pointer on her keys to highlight parts of the projection. Doors and windows and things. But I don't even really need to be here; it just helps her to talk it through. And in the end, it's a break-in, so obviously I'm going to trust the judgement of a thief rather than have to sit and learn all this myself. I don't even need to be here for this.

I'm not sure how long the little red dot has been dancing around my face before she gets me in the eye and I notice. "_Jesus_ Christ; what?"

"Am I boring you, dear?"

"No, it's… It's not you." But she's offended now. Doing that _thing_ again where she has to push up on both arms of the chair to stand up, where the very act makes her wince, before she can go and turn the projector off. "You can run that job, can't you?"

Her answer is another question, dead defiant, "What job? Those plans, what job do they relate to, Jim? Tell me what those plans were for."

See? Trying to humiliate me again. Honestly, put a woman where she can get a carbon blade stuck in her flesh and you'll never hear the end of it. Well, I'm not playing to it, no chance. She'll not get a rise out of me. "I have no desire to keep track of everything," I tell her, "That's what I keep you about for."

She sighs. Opens her mouth to say something, but she changes her mind. Instead, she goes to her handbag, looking for painkillers. For a while, I am inclined to let her keep her silence. But she sighs again before she swallows the pills. "Spit it out, Danielle."

"What's the matter with you lately?" She said that very quick. That's been bugging her for longer than just today. "You're not paying _any_ attention. When you started all this you could recite the name-rank-and-number of every client since day one and now you're… What? Losing interest?"

God, the disgust… There's a simile for it, but I'm too lazy and bored to find it. _All_ the disgust, on her voice, when she talks about losing interest.

So I look over at her, and point somewhere in the hazy direction of her midriff. "_That_," referring to the dressings, "I mean, we've never had a proper disaster until… _that_." Now to me, who knows what I'm talking about, that's an explanation, but she's just staring, waiting for me to go on. "The rest has just been… easy."

"Oh, right. So the _last_ thing I'm doing is boring you, is that it? The work's not exciting anymore unless somebody's getting sliced up?"

"That is _not_ what I said."

Perfectly calm and agreeable, "No. Tell you what, call me when you figure out what you're saying."

Grabbing for her bag, she leans down too quickly and hisses for breath. Knowing she doesn't want to hear from me, I still try, "Are you-?"

"Fine." And as quick as she can manage she's gone, lighting a cigarette on her way out.

* * *

Sherlock

I have to leave the flat today. _Not_ to score. Obviously not to score, I don't do that anymore, I just always feel the need to tell myself, and frequently out loud, that that's not what I'm going out for. This is what left me scrubbing bathroom tiles all morning. This is why I'm on my fifth fag of the day already, and God knows how much coffee. Supposed to be avoiding the stimulants, of course, given they get the nervous system running at high power and seeking to be calmed and do you know what would calm it? Can you guess? One thing in all the world that could slow everything down again and make it all palatable. Well, put it at a safe distance anyway. Go on, guess…

Shouldn't be thinking about it. It's only making everything worse. Craving doesn't go away, it just fades in and out and thinking about it only gives it power. I'm at ten days since my last lapse and still it can double me over, and still I look like a wax mask of my own death. I'll go out, and in my current state I'll get more disturbed and edgy looks from strangers than I ever did when I was using, because now I look like this all the time.

Who would go out in the world to willingly face that?

And of course, despite the fact that I am absolutely not going out in order to score, everything out there is temptation. Everything. God, it's been my _life_ for… for too long. I find it impossible to even look around without spotting some connection. When I moved in here out of the old flat, I had already told myself I was taking no more than I could carry with me. The rest could be left behind. Mycroft knows the old place; he could do with it all as he saw fit. But when I decided not to bring anything that could act as a trigger… Well, on the plus side it made the journey much lighter. Got it down to a holdall only half-full of clothes, skull, other bits and pieces, nothing important. One box of books. That was all. Even the bloody violin had to be left behind in the end.

That's nothing to write home about. I hadn't touched it in months anyway. It was lying there without even a hair in the bow. Leaving it behind made the most sense, whether it was a trigger or not, whether or not it brought back words burned into the back of my mind, a woman's voice saying _Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away…_

But I shouldn't be thinking about that. You let one thought in and it all comes flooding back. All of a sudden even the fact that I'm standing here, shifting from foot to foot in trainers so beaten and soft I can hardly even feel it, is a flashback, to a similar shuffle at a locked door too early in the morning. Even the dealers don't work twenty-four hour days, y'know. You'd probably have to pay them double for that.

Oh God, you could laugh if it didn't make you sick; I'll tell you what has reduced me to this shivering memory, shall I? What started all this? I'll tell you why I'm shifting foot to foot and staring at the inside of my own door like a mortal enemy. Trust me, you'll laugh. It's making me sick, but you'll laugh.

Milk.

There's no milk left. Funny that, how if you keep using something eventually it'll run out. And the really funny thing is that, now I'm thinking about it, it's not such a bad thing. I've been meaning to become less dependent (no reminder intended) on cornflakes, and this could have been just the catalyst I needed. But I only just thought of that there now and everything that has gone before, all the thinking and shuffling and telling myself over and over that I'm not going out to score, that left me chain-smoking and now I still need to go out because nicotine withdrawal is an added hassle I just do not need right now.

_…there lived a handsome, multi-skilled…_

God, she won't shut up.

This is what I was talking about. Once you let the thought in, it doesn't go away again. You have to force it out and that's so much easier said than done. I'm in my third month now of trying to force the thought of h… of addiction out of my head and it's still not working. And that was after a five month run-up of perpetually _telling_ myself I was going to pack it in. You'd think with that sort of preparation laid down before it you'd be alright when it came to the practical side, but apparently bloody not. No, apparently all that thinking about it doesn't count towards anything at all, and in the end you're left standing around, utterly debilitated by the absence of milk and the fact that you have to leave the sanctuary of the flat, even though you're absolutely not going out to score so it hardly matters anyway. Apparently that's how it works; the more hard work and effort you put into it, the harder it all becomes, and she _won't – shut – up, _damn her… I don't want her to finish what she's always been saying, that voice, that half-memory, I don't want her to.

But like I said, once you let the thought in…

_…duplicitous fucking junkie_, that's how that little insult ended. Ridiculous, the most throwaway thing that somebody said and yet, word-for-word, it's in me, and it won't leave me alone, even after all this time.

And I know I should be trying to prove it all wrong. I should be telling myself that it'll leave me alone when I'm better, when I'm cured. But I don't honestly believe that. I don't. And the more I think about it, smoking, staring down the door, the more I think about it, I think she's still right. In a different way, now, but still right. Because once you let the thought in… Duplicitous still rings true. Maybe because I'm trying to pretend I'm not a junkie anymore.


	3. Business:Pleasure

Sherlock

Bet I can make you laugh again. Or make you sick, but that's up to you, depends on what kind of person you are. But I'll bet you laugh at me.

Just bear in mind, I did really, really well. I got as far as the shops and everything. Got milk, and fags, and bacon. I think it was the bacon that finished me actually. That was just a little bit too hopeful. That smacked of organization, the ability to actually light a hob ring under a pan and time the actual cooking of something. I should have known better than to put that kind of pressure on myself. And then, of course, there was the fact that I did that because I _wanted bacon. _That sounds simple but think about it, really think about it. I was pursuing a desire. The memory of a taste and a smell made me wants it back in my life all over again. I did it because I wanted it.

Maybe if you think about that you won't laugh, and you won't feel sick, when I tell you I'm in the furthest corner of the furthest room of a doss I haven't been to in at least a month and a half and I am high to the very brink of drinking the milk straight out of the bottle. But I'm not there yet, so there's that. Give me the credit for that.

Curled up, I hear footsteps coming towards me, but until it affects me directly I'm not moving. It might just be somebody else looking for the furthest corner, and they haven't realized yet that it's occupied. They'll be fine; there's a mattress against the other wall, so they'll be more comfortable there. The floor is hard, and my back is starting to hurt already. I'm doing them a favour. They'll be happier over there, and then they tap me on the shoulder.

"Ex_cuse_ me." Those words are strained and strange to the speaker. This is someone trying very hard to be polite. So I'm not getting kicked out or arrested, so it's not urgent. This person, already high by the sound of things, continues with their heartfelt, hard-working etiquette, "But might I please possibly borrow one of your cigarettes could I please?"

Depends. I'm not sure on what, but I know I haven't made up my mind yet. So I look up out of my arms to see who's talking. Female. And yes, already high. Looking, in fact, like she might have been up for days, the bitch (excuse me; that's envy talking). Huge blue eyes in a skeletal face, long, greasy ginger hair. I know her from somewhere, or like I knew her before she died.

So yes. Yes, she can borrow one of my cigarettes can she please.

No, wait… "Borrow? Are you giving it back?"

Mild confusion stuns her like a gunshot. A full twenty seconds later she grasps the point and says, "But I'll give you one sometime… that I have, when you don't have one."

"Doesn't work," I tell her, shaking my head. "I'm not coming back here. I'm quitting. In fact I've already quit, I just wanted this one today."

"Oh, well, then, something else, like, that you could have today, we could, like, swap?"

"I get what you're saying, and I totally agree, but what?"

She says, "Um," and hums it for a long time afterward, tips her head back like the ceiling is going to beam down the answer to her. For all I know it is, so I leave her to it. If she or the ceiling can think of something I want, she can have the fag. It's really as simple as that. But I think they're having trouble, or else having a long, silent discussion about it, because she sits like that with her chin pointing up for a long time, until my thoughts start to drift, until I'm not even thinking of her anymore, asking myself what the hell I've just been talking about and what I'm even doing here and why I'm high again when I was doing so well, and somewhere in the middle of all this she bobs her head in and kisses me.

No. That's not what I want. I give her the cigarette, but then I push her away. She's already off balance, so she stumbles backward and into the wall over the mattress, where she drops down and just lies. That wasn't something that I wanted. I only gave her the fag to make her go away. This morning I wanted it, but that was just a physical, bodily reaction, seeking an imitation-hit via serotonin and endorphin release, that's all that was. This morning, if she'd been around and wanted a cigarette or something, that would have been absolutely okay. But I don't want it when I'm high, or even when I'm sober and in a good place.

But she's over there, and all I can see the soles of her feet and the various shapes beyond that; a scythe-like smile that is her hips, disappearing back into the hammock of her emaciated stomach, looking like you could lift her up by the bottom ribs, breasts shrunken practically out of sight. And somewhere beyond all that, big blue eyes, a strand of pinkish hair stuck to the wall. Then, like she knows I'm looking, she sits straight up, fast and upright as a TV monster. With the fag waggling in the corner of her mouth, "But now I need a light, though."

I've already given her the cigarette. No point arranging any sort of swap around the necessary light. I fish in my pocket for the lighter and am about to toss it to her when she shakes her head.

"Won't catch it. And that's _really_ dangerous. Come over to me."

I don't want to. But she's waiting for it. Leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, face stuck out, eyes shut. I don't want to go over there, though. Rather than throw the lighter, I skim it over the carpet to stop between her feet.

* * *

Jim

Moran got in about four o'clock. Stopped in on his way home to tell me I was completely safe re: the Conservative who got all conservative lately. Remembering Dani's reaction, I tried to sound interested and grateful and like I didn't already _know_ I was safe. It went down a lot better that way and now I'm not on my own for dinner. Which is nice.

Y'know, that's one thing I _never_ forget; the two of them are always _teaching_ me things. I'm doing all my business online or over the phone. Sometimes I just need a little refresher in how to talk to real people without giving them the excuse to get all pissy over something none of us has any real control over and storm out like they've got any right to do so. Not that I'm feeling bitter about anything at all. It was worth it, anyway; like I said, it's given me a bit of time with Moran. Not just as company over the steak and salad, but because I've got a present for him.

"D'you fancy the south of France, next weekend?"

"Who's the target?"

"Pharmaceutical mogul. I'll send you all the details, if you're on board."

He's thinking about it. I'll be honest, I didn't expect him to. See, the south of France is very near the north of Italy. And there's a fella in the country right outside Milan who I know dear Sebastian would just love to ride down and visit. They don't see nearly enough of each other. Might lighten him up a bit. I've noticed he's not at his best lately. He's still doing the job, oh yeah, and doing it very well, but he's not… He looks how I feel, is what I'm trying to say.

This frog that wants killed, anybody could do it. In fact, I could call back the underling who is paying for this assassination and tell him how to cut costs by doing it himself. But I thought this might be exactly what Moran needs. Quick, continental dirty weekend. Get the shot off on the Friday night, spend the rest of the weekend pretending to me he's still working and really just getting the rest of his shots off in Milan.

See? I do try to be a thoughtful boss. And if I'd _thought _for a second that MI5 might be on to the theft of those plans the other night then… Fuck it; I'm not wasting any more breath justifying that. Honestly, you'd think I was guilty or something, listening to me.

He's still thinking, by the way. I've had time to go off on this whole little rant because he's still thinking.

"Where do you think Dani'll be by next weekend?"

Please, God, don't make me answer that… "Right back where she usually is on the weekend; three martinis down and between strange legs." Then, as an afterthought, "Christ, you're a much better brother than me…"

"What?"

"Nothing. She'll be fine. Will you take the job?"

"Yeah, why not?"

Sighing, "_Good_. Thank you." Over the minute that follows, it's cute really, you can watch everything I thought of in advance slowly dawning on him, the gears running furiously, glowing at the edges, as he figures out he can make the kill with relative ease and sneak off like a guilty teenager with his Italian paramour. Just because the thought of it makes my flesh creep doesn't mean it won't cheer him up. I take care of my people, when I can, when it's within my capacities to do so. I give him long enough to get to the end of that thought process before I let him know he's got his dreamy, drifting face on. "Moran? Hello?"

"Sorry. Tossing up whether to chance customs or if I can get something while I'm out there."

Tossing up something, anyway, y'lying filth… "I'll set something up. Let me know what you're looking for and we'll get it delivered." Another five seconds go by in silence. I don't like all this quiet; it's making me very aware of the way time's passing. Or, more accurately, not passing. "What's the matter? Usually you'd have given me a veritable Dear Santa list of firearms by now."

"Nothing," he says, and shrugs, and breathes in like there's more.

But there isn't. Or at least, there aren't words for it. He just sort of shrugs again, and I know it. Like I can read his mind, I know everything that's going through it. And I point across the table and just, because there aren't any words, "_Yeah_!"

Moran looks up, confused at first, but I think whatever the psychic link is, that cements it, because he gets it right away, points back, "Yeah, and you just think… _whatever_."

"Exactly. I mean, it's not boredom, I know what that feels like, so it's not-"

"No, not boredom. Never been this busy in my life."

"Me either. It's not boredom, but it's… It's-"

Moran says, "Next, please." He doesn't know why he said it. It just came out. It doesn't make any sense to him. But I know precisely what he meant and I couldn't have expressed it any better myself. On one level, that's what we're doing at the minute. Clients come like customers in a queue and we tick them off one by one, 'Next please', and it's only every so often you get one who is really engaging. Moran just stands behind his gun and I put a succession of targets in front of him. Maybe that's why Dani doesn't get it; every building, every object is a fresh challenge. Not to mention she has her duties as primary Mata Hari on top of the theft, so there's more to work with. But me and Moran, we understand each other on this point, this constant succession of something we're good at and comfortable with and each one is only different in the details and…

And on another level, 'Next, please'. This thing I'm doing now, I've taken it as far as I can. What's next, please?


	4. Proposition:Plea

Jim

Wednesday kicks off pretty much as normal. Get up, eat breakfast, check I haven't made the most wanted lists overnight, placate a couple of idiot clients, threaten the ones that get uppity. And at about five to eleven I go and put the kettle on. I do this because at eleven somebody usually rolls through the door. Hardly a year since we met, Moran and Danielle seem perfectly comfortable treating this place like a second home. I don't even go _in_ the spare room anymore. There's too much of them just _lying_ around. Until them there had never, ever been another foot over that threshold. I'm still getting used to having authorized personnel.

But I must be doing pretty well at getting used to it, because when nobody's come clacking or lumbering down the corridor by quarter past, life just sort of… _stops_. Like, there are other things I could be getting on with, and if they were here their arrival would not have interrupted my day in any way whatsoever. But because they're not here I can't make any of it happen.

Nothing happens. I try to concentrate for more than an hour and get nothing done. I mean, I knew Dani was pissed off, but I didn't think she'd be petty about it. She's always here. Anyway, she's got work to do. And Moran, well, he's not such a permanent fixture, but what if she's said something and-

And I'd get over it. Don't be thick, of course I would. I wouldn't even think of them for more than a couple of days. I'd maybe have to take on a little bit less, but that wouldn't be so bad. Maybe going solo is what's next, maybe this is the best thing for me.

I could almost believe that, if it weren't that when my phone rings the first words out of my mouth are, "Oh, thank fuck… Hello?"

"What does _caveat emptor_ mean?"

Danielle. Pissed, yeah, but not at me, and pissed enough at somebody else to call me without compunction. Bless him, whoever he is. By the sounds of things he's about to have his still-beating cliché torn dripping from his chest. I won't stop her, but I'll be sorry. Anyway, I search through what scraps of legal Latin I have and dredge, "Buyer beware. Short, pretty way of saying, 'You bought it, now fuck off'."

"Then I need to borrow Sebastian whenever you give him a day off."

"What for?"

"Murder a car dealer for me. That Aston I bought last week is nine different kinds of fucked. Bonnet _blew up_ on the bloody Limehouse Link. I'm lucky I got out with my life." She broke down. In spectacular style by the sounds of things, but she broke down, and that's why she's not here, because she broke down. Yes, absolutely we have to have the bastard murdered, of course we do. Let's stand him up on top of the Fourth Column and knock his block off with a machete, show the public how you do a service. "Anyway, I'm in a cab now, so I won't be long, alright?"

"Yeah. You shouldn't be driving anyway."

"Don't start. Seb already gave me that lecture. He just didn't know what the Latin meant, so I had to call you. Had to know if I'd been insulted or not."

"Listen; about yesterday-"

"Wait. I'm only ten minutes away."

Ten minutes is enough time for me to clean up the desk, avoiding looking at my watch, so I can pretend it's five to eleven and go back to the kettle. Pretend everything's still on track for a good day. And over the racket of the kettle just finishing up, like she promised, I hear the door open, and then shut a little harder than strictly necessary. I don't speak, mostly because I don't trust myself not to bid her good morning rather than afternoon. She'd laugh at me if she knew how hard I was ignoring all the clocks. She doesn't say anything either, just dumps her bag and coat in the hallway and eases herself up onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. It's handier for her. But she still winces, and I think she catches my reaction. First direct words of the day, "I'm not doing it to annoy you, darling."

Next door to ignoring that entirely, "How're you feeling?"

"Fine. Promise. The one in my side still twinges, but that's all." Which is all very brave, comforting talk, but there's a little square shape in her front jeans pocket, which I know for a fact to be a tiny tortoiseshell pillbox, and that currently she says her nightly prayers to a god called Benzodiazepam. She says, "And it'll teach me to buy a car just because I saw one in the movies," so _I'd_ say she's had a couple of them already. There's no way she should have been driving.

Then, because I want it out of the way, "So, the other thing-"

Danielle waves, tries to smile; definitely sedated. "Oh, listen," she breezes. "I was sore, and drugged, and I can't have sex while the stitches are in. We'll say I was irritable and call it quits."

"No but-"

"Really, there's nothing to discuss."

"You're not listening to me." Might have said that a bit sharply. Something gets through the temazepam haze, brings her eyes into perfect laser focus and onto me. It's a little bit unnerving, actually. "Me and Moran, we… If I said the words, 'Next, please', would that mean anything to you?"

"Oh!" and Danielle's face clears like I just unveiled the meaning of life and she knew it all along. "Is _that_ what it is? Both of you? Oh, _right_…"

"Then you _do_ understand." I'm not relieved. Only a weak sort of a person would need his mates to vindicate him. There's no way I'd ever want to rely that much on _anybody's_ opinion, and least of all hers. But still. It's nice to have that feeling coming to me. She's nodding.

"When I was nineteen, I'd been housebreaking my way through uni for a year, year and a half… 'Next' was my first museum. Of course it was only a little one, but…" This is spoken with quiet, fond nostalgia. I'm not surprised. Now tell me, if I'm not surprised she did her first museum, even just a little one, at the age of nineteen, is that a sign that there's something wrong with her, or with me? "And then it was a bank, and then a gallery, private collection, international, item-over-value, steal-to-order… Lot of 'nexts'. I'm happy enough as I am now, but I get it. I really do. It's an awful feeling." Yeah. Yeah it's an awful feeling. I'm glad she gets that. I'm gladder still when she looks up out of her reverie, looks me in the eye and says with interest and absolute innocence, "So what're we going to do about it?"

* * *

Sherlock

For some reason, I wake up with the thought in my head that the girl's name is Ruby, that I met her a year ago, that she helped me out with a few things, and that that's where I knew her from. She was not so bruised or bony when last we met, hence the feeling that I _loaned_ a fag, not to the woman herself, but to her remnants. Wake very slowly into a sick, sore world, having slept through the comedown, straight into the hangover. That's why I don't open my eyes right away. And when I do, I am looking at a strange ceiling which is very, very far away. Because I'm not at home, and I'm not up on my bed, curled into a quietly ashamed ball. No, I'm still at that doss, flat on my back on that mattress on the floor. There's an arm flung across me, a head using my chest for a pillow.

Her name is Ruby and I met her a year ago and she helped me out with a few things and that's where I know her from.

It's coming back to me. She held onto my lighter, you see. After she lit the cigarette, she didn't throw it back to me. She just lay back and blew smoke at the ceiling. So when the time came to light my own cigarette, I had to go and get it. I thought she was sleeping. Certainly she _pretended_ to be sleeping. And when I reached over her to retrieve the lighter from her right hand, she put her hand behind my neck and pulled me down next to her. I was high, so it made me laugh. I just lay there, though. Nothing happened. I must have fallen asleep and she just followed suit. Nothing happened.

I reach for the first fag of the day, then think better of it. The smell might wake her. What I do instead is ease out from beneath her, gently lowering her head to comfort. Then I get last night's shopping out of my former corner and get out of the room as quickly and quietly as I can. Out, and down the stairs, where a doorman grins. He puts his hand in his pocket and shows me a palmful of little single dose bags. "One for the road?" he laughs.

"No," I tell him, "Thank you."

He laughs. Whistles as I edge past him out the door so I have to look back. He nods over, "Your belt, mate. I'd fix that, before you go anywhere."

Open. Unbuckled. Nothing happened. Nothing happened.

With a head and senses too big for any human body, I get out into the street, get my bearings and start to make my way home. It's hell. It's like the worst of the old days; I count the windows on buildings, the separate stones that make up the curb, the sewer grates and streetlights and add up the postcodes from the street signs, all at once. I read the lives of those few early-morning people I pass. A P.A. in fear of her job, going in early to score points, a merchant banker who never made it home last night, or not his own home anyway (something bloody happened), a schoolteacher who has understandably lost all faith in her vocation. And dogwalkers and joggers and deliverymen and shopkeepers, Christ's sake, damn it all, to _hell_ with them. But I have to look at them like they matter. What's the alternative? Nothing. Thoughtlessness. Emptiness.

And I make it back to my own building, climbing the stairs to the flat. Somebody else has come this way, and only recently. Somebody out of the ordinary, somebody who doesn't belong. Somebody worth thinking about. Oh, thank God… Let it be a break-in. Please, please, please let it be a break-in…

Oh, but it's not, is it? No, on the first floor landing, I get a sudden waft of a certain aroma and I know it's not. The smell knocks me for sick, goes straight to my pounding head and sends me staggering and swearing as fast as I can up the rest of the stairs and into the flat. The door's closed, and locked again, but that doesn't mean anything, not really. I shut myself inside and go from room to room until I'm absolutely sure that I'm alone. And then I start putting all the clothes back into the holdall, and all the books back into the box, because I have to move again. This place isn't a sanctuary anymore. It isn't even really mine anymore.

Mycroft found me. That's what the smell was. Italian leather and French aftershave and that _fat_ he puts in his hair. That was the smell in the stairwell and that's the smell in _here_, in my _flat_, in my place that I found for myself and didn't tell him about for a bloody reason.

I'm not safe here anymore. I need to move. It takes me less than ten minutes to gather my belongings. I'm in no state to be going anywhere and I don't know where I'll go, but I've no choice. So I put the old bag across my shoulders, take up the box under one arm and reach down over the back of the sofa with the other, to wrap my hand around a cool, familiar handle and lift up the violin case.

Hold on.

I put everything back down again. Then round the sofa and sit down next to it. Definitely mine. I know the frayed edges and they're all correct. I know the scuffs and stains. It's my case. But I never brought it here. Because it's a trigger, because it starts up a voice in my head telling me fairytales, _Once upon a time_… And yet there it sits. It's blue and the handle is black. I reach out and slowly, carefully, start to pull back the zippers. The violin is mine too. There's a scratch by the chin rest that marks it out immediately. There's no subterfuge here. It's all genuine, all mine.

The hair in the bow, which had been cut in two, has been competently replaced.

And there's a little white notecard stuck through it. No doubt a threat of some kind. At least, that's what I'm trying to tell myself. Can't quite convince myself it's true, though; my name on the front face is elegant, arabesque, like a signature. Means he took his time over it, wanted it to mean something.

_Give me something to tell Mummy_, it says. And the address of a café and a time tomorrow.

Mycroft wants to be seen with me in public? This I _have_ to see.


	5. Watchful:Reckless

Sherlock

Ladies and gentlemen, not just in public, but _damn_ close to Vauxhall Cross. Either this is a very well-thought out and stoic approach to professional suicide or he's somehow developed some degree of faith in me. It does _nothing_ to settle my thoughts, nothing at all. It's not _nervousness_ exactly. The day I allow Mycroft to ever make me nervous again will be a sad day indeed. But the strangeness of this entire event is getting to me. I just keep thinking back on what he must have seen at the flat last night. What did he think when he saw six locks on the inside of the bedroom door, for instance? They're there to keep me in. I know they're on my side of the door, but at the worst of a withdrawal, I'm lucky if I can stretch up to reach the first _three_. I'd need to be really determined to get to the one that latches into the lintel.

Luckily, that's where I spent last night, coming through the first of the worst from my latest lapse. It'll be back, in another wave, but this morning I am looking and feeling relatively well. Better, in fact, than I did before the lapse. Ironic, isn't it? I'm presenting my best possible face to my brother, but I had to shoot up to get it. Perhaps I shouldn't dwell on that; if that sticks in my head as a possible use, I'll never quit.

This is what I mean; what if this is bad for me? I've never really thought about it until now, but what if seeing him here is bad for me? I've been avoiding him. I moved out of a bough-and-paid-for flat to support myself just so he wouldn't be able to find me. And I never stopped to think about the reasons for that, but this could be it.

That's why I'm here at precisely the appointed time. I think if I had to sit around and wait for him, I might get up and walk. I'm not surprised, as I round the corner, to see the car pull up and know that Mycroft had exactly the same idea. There's a comfort in it, actually, knowing this is giving him the same difficulty. It's been just over three months since I last saw him. He's put on a couple of pounds. Doesn't look happy. Tired, like he's working too much and, more importantly, not getting enough out of it. So I should avoid asking him how work is. Though I may be spending more time than ever on my own and locked in, I have enough of the social in me to still see that.

But it's another worry; the last time I saw him, I would have spotted all those factors and immediately begun to calculate just how long I could stretch the work conversation out for, how long I could wring him out. Today, though... Today I don't want to.

I meet him at the door of the place. He reaches past me, but only to hold the door open. Not the sort of courtesy I usually get. Usually I'm following him out of police stations, so maybe that's understandable.

I'm supposed to say 'Hello' and 'How are you?', but I can't quite make the words form up and leave me. It's okay; neither can he. There's not a word spoken, in fact, until we're both sat down and there's two black coffees on the way. Anyway, 'How are you?' would be rather a loaded question, I suppose...

The first words between us are the last I would ever have expected. Mycroft starts us off, and he says (bear with me, I'm only reporting this, I'm aware of how it sounds), "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Well, you made it clear you'd rather not have been found. I was worried you wouldn't come, this morning."

"Don't be ridiculous." He thinks about that and then nods, conceding. Whether or not he admitted it to himself, he knew I'd be here. It was that note of his, the wording of it. It was far too acceptant, too Do-What-Thou-Wilt. And Mycroft has always had such high expectations. Not just of me, of everybody. That was what made me so determined to disappoint him at every turn. So it follows, in a sick, human sort of a way, that when he stopped expecting, I would fulfil. I _had_ thought the note calculated to elicit this effect, but he's left me wondering.

Because I'm wondering, thinking of other things, because I was up sick all night and still not feeling the best, I say something very stupid all of my own. "How did you find me?" There's a classic, hm? One for the outtakes, wouldn't you say...

"Don't be ridiculous," is his response. Fair enough. "Though I will admit, you made it rather more of a chore than previously."

"...Thank you?"

He rolls his eyes, but I'd swear, if I didn't know better, that was the edge of a smile on his face. Again, I'm only reporting the observable facts. Maybe when I'm not baffled I'll be able to give a little analysis. "You've kept your head down," he corrects.

Bloody right. Twenty-two weeks since my last arrest. That was the last time I saw him. Twenty-two weeks and a couple of days since I, in my laughable ignorance, thought 'I know, we'll see what these _meetings_ are all about'. Eighteen days – how long the thought of seeing Mycroft again kept me off the stuff, and the longest I've lasted to date.

"Oh, well, of course I'm harder to keep track of when you're not having to run after me."

Far too quickly, caring too much about setting me straight, "That's not what I meant."

I look him in the eye and see that he's telling the truth. So I put away the comment about how comfortable he must have gotten (he's always been sensitive about his weight) and tell him instead, "I know."

"You didn't have to hide." This hurts him. _I_ have hurt him, staying away. All of this I know because suddenly he can't make eye contact anymore.

So while we're being honest with each other (and myself), "I was scared you'd put me in rehab." Especially after that bloody meeting. I just imagined those every day and bright airy rooms with locks on the doors and the enforced company of others and I... There's not a lot I am genuinely afraid of, and even less I'll openly admit to, but rehab is it. I'll do it. It'll take me time and it'll hurt like hell and I'll hate myself and keep lapsing, but I will do it, and I will do it alone.

But Mycroft just shakes his head. He has to turn away from me for a moment, asking one of the staff to bring him a blueberry Danish, but he turns right back and says frankly and openly, "No. That's why I left it so long before coming to find you."

Don't ask where I was that night. And please tell me he doesn't already know. "Why now?"

"I'm only so good a person." I laugh. Mycroft just made me laugh. And now what I need is somebody to tell me this isn't all some extended fever dream and I'm about to wake up next to Ruby all over again. "And... Sherlock, please don't feel I'm trying impose anything on you but... If you _need_ anything-"

I stop him. Not with a word or a sign but, well, he stops. Maybe just because his pastry's arrived. Giving him the same moment's rest he gave me, and you can tell this waiter just absolutely _hates_ us, "Actually, could I get one of those too?" Then, as he takes off rolling his eyes, in as light-hearted a way as I can possibly manage, I say to Mycroft, "A distraction, if there's one going."

But he probably doesn't really know what I mean.

* * *

Jim

They're completely useless, y'know. My nearest compatriots, this is. My left and right hand advisors, they're _begging_ me to find replacements for them. They're completely and utterly fecking dense. I got Moran round this evening and put it to him; if I can figure out what the Next step is, would he be along with me? He was all for it. Dead excited about the idea. Bless him, he does get rather the look of a young puppy about him when he's wound up about something. But since then, he's done nothing to prove himself of any worth. He tried thinking about it for a while, but it clearly wasn't working out for him. And then he remembered Liverpool are playing for the Cup tonight and took himself off into the living room. At least he's out of the way.

Still, I expect it of him. He's no self-discipline. If you ask me, that's what the army does to people. They get so used to all their orders coming from outside they can't do anything for themselves anymore. And Seb's just not much of a thinker, really. He's very good in a crisis, and if the task is, say, getting out of a building full of unfriendly guns, he'll have to that figured out in mere seconds. But this is a bit bigger than that. We'll forgive Moran. Especially since his team are getting torn to shreds.

Hm? Oh, I haven't so much as _looked_ at the match. No, I just know by the noises he makes and the lagers he's gotten through and it's not even half time yet.

Dani, though, Danielle I am disappointed in. She paced up and down until she was too sore to pace. Now she's lying on the sofa opposite me in the office, tapping her foot because she can't drink while she's drugged up. I can read what's going through her head and I'll tell you, without a shadow of a doubt, the only thing she's thinking about is whether or not she can be bothered to face the pain of getting up to go out and have a smoke. She's not even trying anymore. You know I used to think she was intelligent? Seriously. Do you ever get that; the more you get to know somebody, the more laughable your first impressions of them come to seem?

Me, I'm sitting at the computer, looking at the lists.

All the jobs are just sitting here. All the basic, everyday little jobs that aren't enough to constitute Next. There are about twenty which are ready to go. See, we time them, leave a while between murders, a while between thefts, and that way everything stays sporadic and feeling natural. So they're all just sitting there, a little of codewords. Redhead and Speckle and Carfax, Olivier and Jubilee... But none of them are any good. Most of them don't even require my intervention, once I trigger them. Which doesn't help me at all, does it?

"Dani."

"Mh?"

"Remember last year, when I first met you and Moran?"

"...How could I forget?"

"Don't jump down my throat, angel," because I can hear her getting geared up for that, "But what was different about that and what we do now?"

"Well, any one of us could have been murdered at any given moment."

"Right. So everything was better when we were in danger..."

Oh, wrong thing to say. On the plus side, though, it gets her to sit up. "Well, we'll just go off and murder another minor dictator, shall we?"

"What did I say about jumping down my throat? Christ, if you're so desperate for a fag, open a window."

She sighs out eternal gratitude, and is on her feet in seconds without wincing. She leans out head and shoulders before she so much as sparks up, so there's that much respect left in her. Or that's what I think, untils he leans back and calls over, "You need to stop staring at those jobs. I helped plan at least four of them and I'm telling you, it's all small-time. Those people don't need you once you give out instructions."

Yes, thank you, dear, I had thought of that...

Not content with this, she goes on, "I think what was different about last year, none of us could have gotten through it without the other two. It's a sum of the parts kind of thing."

What was I saying, about her not being intelligent?

I look at the codewords on the screen with fresh eyes and yeah, fine, they're nothing, they're absolutely sweet fuck all on their own, totally meaningless, each of them impacting on twenty people tops, but there are twenty of them, and there's one in Aberdeen and one in Aberystwyth and the rest from Aberanywhere. Fuck's sake, I've been staring at them, and it's here, it's perfect. 'Next, please'. Next. This is what's next.

"Danielle, pick a city, a UK city."

Her wrist still hangs over the window ledge, but the rest of her is back in the room, looking me over with wary interest, the way you look at a monkey behind bars when it might be about to go buck nuts. "I don't understand," she says. But she will. When I put it to her, she'll understand.

"A city. Preferably a major one. I'm going to ask you to cripple it, so choose wisely."

"Edinburgh," she says, as if crippling a city is something she's given a deal of thought to, over the years.

"Fine. Take Edinburgh. Blow the castle to kingdom come if you want, but make the world talk about it, do you see what I'm saying?"

"I still don't get why." But she's intrigued, isn't she? Enough to drop most of a cigarette down all those floors without a thought and come over to me, looking over my shoulder. I've brought up a map and am plotting where all the planned jobs are, plus all the work in the queue that might be taken care of relatively quickly. And I've just put a big blue pin in Edinburgh. She shakes her head. Doesn't understand, couldn't articulate it, but she's shaking her head. She starts to look towards the door, about to shout for Moran, but I beat her to it.

"Moran, pick a city you want to fucking nuke!"

The TV roars as another goal goes away. Moran makes a noise like he's been shot and bawls back, "_Manchester_!"

So I put a big pin in Manchester too.

And then I start highlight all those other little works of genius I can trigger with a single mouse-click. "No," Dani mutters. Then louder, "No, no, what are you doing?" On instinct, her hand flashes out to grab mine back. She stops millimetres short of contact and grabs my cuff instead. Which is all I need to know; if she really wanted to stop me, she wouldn't have been able to stop herself like that. She wouldn't have _wanted_ to. I... _dislike_ physical contact and Danielle knows that. She would have deliberately held me back. So, when I shake my arm, she just lets go. All I could have needed to ask her, just answered.

I give her a moment's eye contact and go back to lining it up. It looks good on a map, y'know, it looks like mainland Britain (and one of the Isle of Mann) has multicoloured chickenpox. She turns away.

"Sebastian! Seb, get in here. He's lost his mind; he's booking us all into Her Majesty's Hotels!"

"Do you trust me?" I say, while he's tearing himself away from the telly.

"Not when you're doing mad things. This is not 'Next', this is 'Last'."

"So do you want me to take you off Edinburgh then? Walk away, Dani. I understand, it's absolutely fine. I'll give you a ring when it's over"

"Yeah," she says, sounding defiant. "That'll do." She passes Moran in the doorway. I'm too deep into this to really care. I'll notice in the morning, I'll feel shit in the morning, but then again I'm going to have an awful lot to do, keeping track of all this. It really will probably end up that I just call her when it's over. Anyway, I couldn't be too wrong; Moran doesn't seem half as concerned as she was, looking over my shoulder. He watches that single click, as I let everything go, sending all that out into the world all at once. But maybe he doesn't see it all so clearly as she did. Besides, he wanted this as much as I did. He doesn't need to understand much.

I tell him, "Rip that town to shreds, alright?"

And he says, "Alright."


	6. Not Yet:Not Now

Jim

Have you heard about the crime spree? They keep talking about it on TV and in the papers, all that crap. It was on Prime Minister's questions. Big-eared stammer box didn't know where to put himself. Took him five minutes just saying, "_Well_..." Apparently the country descended into absolute chaos, practically overnight. So I'm told, anyway; I haven't seen that much of it myself. But then I've had my head down, this last week, nose to the grindstone, knuckling down. It's been very busy round here, been very exciting.

They tell me ordinary decent people aren't going over their doorsteps after dark anymore. They're telling me there hasn't been a spike in the murder rate like this since records began. Police forces up and down the country are completely swamped.

This is what they're saying on the news, anyway.

Me, I'm a bit busy spinning plates. Because while most of the jobs I set off last week didn't require my direct intervention, some of them have needed a bit of guidance, and a few corrections along the way. I've had problems to solve. And of course, there's been the need to keep it up; keep the work flowing, so it can stay a spree and not just be relegated to a spate. I don't want it just to be an anomaly, something to be recorded and analysed and then turn into a footnote. I don't want to be a joke on some torpid TV pundit's Review Of The Year. No, no thank you, Mr Brooker. You don't even get to be sarky-yet-serious about this. No.

No, I want people to be trying to forget this for years to come; the week Britain went crazy.

Like for instance, I'm sitting here, putting the heir to a country pile in touch with a poison chemist I've been working with for a while now. But at the same time, I'm reading a Reuters report on a granny who just got shot in her own kitchen over pension money and little else. Now, that wasn't me. Obviously. I mean, give me a little credit; there's no way that would ever have been me. Matter of fact, I find that a bit disgusting, really. And that could have happened anytime. I'm pretty sure that happens most days, somewhere in this frigging idiot nation. There's always some daft prick who rubs his two brain cells together and gets the same bright spark of an idea. Could have happened anytime. But it didn't, it happened this week, and all the puzzled Daily Mail columnists tearing their hair and beating their chests and bellowing 'Why' to the man in the sky, this is all just fodder.

Actually, there's a lot going on that I didn't arrange. Maybe it's just because I'm paying extra attention these days, but it makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, if everything's going to hell anyway, it's odds-on there's going to be a load of people jumping on the train.

Not that I'm calling you all sheep or anything like that. Not that I'm saying if I'd suddenly talked a load of people in jumping off bridges all at the same time that we might have been seeing a spike in that too.

That's an idea, actually...

But then I get a text through from Moran and lose track of it. I pick up the framed team photograph of last week's Manchester United line-up from my desk, uncap a permanent marker and cross out another vacuous face. I'm noticing a pattern, actually; he's sort of spiralling in towards the goalie. Saving him for last. The first five all came through at once. Then they were drip-fed for a couple of days while the cops still had the manpower to protect their cow-brained, leather-kicking wankers. Then they took the bodyguards off so they could deal with the crimes that were actually happening and we're making nice progress again. I should have him back in London tomorrow, day after at the latest.

There's a little post-it note stuck in the corner of the frame that just says, 'Call Dani'. It's been there... well, it's not as yellow as it was when I wrote on it. Haven't gotten around to it. I told you I'd be busy. And Edinburgh Castle's still standing, so I don't think she changed her mind about getting involved. It's for the best, while she's still wounded. And giving her a break is the best that _I_ can do. That's why I haven't called her yet.

Here's an interesting thing to note, all the same. Though I haven't called Miss Mies herself, I've called quite a number of people who I know to be associated with her. If there's a thief in my phonebook, it's because of her. I was trying to sort out a couple of gallery jobs, just to lift us up above the usual rubbish which has been filling out this big festival I'm throwing. Dani'll tell you herself, every thief in the world has a couple of jobs in their head, and they could do them tomorrow were it not for a key code or a security pass or some little niggle that would be too much effort to get. And I can provide that.

But not a one of them was available. I called Templar, called Parker, even called Raffles, who she told me never to call, and not a one of them was up for a free pass. Now doesn't that strike you as strange? Stranger still when you consider how much theft has been going on regardless, when you look at the Reuters...

I'm thinking about it when the phone rings. Still Moran. "Jim, set a bomb up for me."

"Where?" and I'm already going through the records for a sympathetic party who's in his area and can pull it off with some speed.

"Old Trafford."

I stop. "Moran, I'm getting the impression you're making this very personal. This is how people get caught, y'know." And he's one of my stars. He's one of the stories the news still reports as an individual occurrence, rather than just in the general mass. There's him, and the traditional cop-bomber in Belfast (naturally), Aberdeen turned into a turf war (apparently they've got Scandinavian gangs up there running... I don't know, the _fishing_ or the ferry to the oil rigs or something). There's a skinny, bespectacled anthropology student in Cardiff who only wanted us to sort him out with firearms, turned out to be a right Don't-Like-Mondays. But really, in terms of international impact, murdering a whole pack of sportsmen under police protection has been the shining light of this little endeavour. I don't _want_ him to get caught, that's what I'm saying.

"No, but they'll go and look for me there, and they'll abandon my last striker to do it."

Peering down into my picture frame, "The one with the face like lumpy custard?"

"That's the one."

"Okay then." He's an ugly bastard, tiny piggy eyes. So yeah, okay.

"Cheers, mate, I owe you one." I don't even get to say goodbye. He hangs up, goes back to his happy hunting. So I start sorting him out a short notice bomb-maker.

Moran's having a good time. I'd say he's even forgotten about his upcoming tryst in Milan. A big old mission like this, a proper pick-'em-off, he's on top of the world. I think this has been Next for him. And I'm really glad he's happy. Honestly, it warms my heart. Because I listen to him on the phone, sounding like he's having a blast, like a kid calling home from his holidays, and I think, that's going to be me someday. Just as soon as I figure out what it is I actually want. Because, much as I too am enjoying myself, as great as it is to turn on rolling news and see riots in Bristol and Birmingham and think, _That was me_, I haven't gotten to that place yet

This isn't what I thought I'd feel.

When I did it, when I started all this, I knew what I thought I'd feel. Now I don't really remember. But it's not here. Or maybe it's not here yet, maybe that's all it is. Maybe there's another step or two, before I reach that place. Just keep working.

* * *

Sherlock

It's not often I get to say London's criminal scene is relatively quiet. But my God, _what_ is going on? It's incredible. Awful, awful, I mean awful. And London doesn't seem to be getting the worst of it. I saw a mugging yesterday. But then, that could happen anytime, I suppose. The Met have been lending manpower to every other quarter, though, so you have to assume they've left themselves a bit stretched. Anyway, it was a pretty common street theft. He hit her round the head, grabbed her bag and off he went. So if one had been standing on the corner of that street and if one were so inclined, he might have been easily stopped simply by taking hold of the bag strap. The speed of his running and his own centrifugal force would have spun him clear into the wall, all but knocking him out. And when he inevitably got up, he'd be so disoriented and afraid of capture that he would have just kept running, and the bag could have been safely returned to its owner even as she was still getting back to her feet.

If one were so inclined.

It was all rather exciting and unexpected. I only went out to buy a map and some thumb-tacks.

I can safely say that no map was ever held so securely to a wall as this one is. Should it ever be pulled down, the wall may very well come down with it. I'm marking up the events. Not every reported illegal action of the last week, don't be ridiculous. I began with all the ones that happened last Wednesday night, last Thursday. Just when the spike began. Coloured pins denote the major centres. Cardiff is definite, Aberdeen and Manchester too. Belfast, well, it's hard to tell, but I think it's related. The explosives being used are so professional compared to past eruptions of violence. No homemade pipebombs or antiquated mortars. The kind of thing a military man once got in trouble for calling 'Hollywood devices' on the news.

My hands aren't shaking today. I've got pages of notes in a remarkably steady hand to prove it. But I can't find a connection. It's there, though. The world might well be terrible and there might well be those who would react in this way, but something had to happen that they all spontaneously snapped at once. And yes, I'm chain-smoking, drinking a lot of coffee, but my hands aren't shaking and it's been a while since a rogue muscle took it upon itself to seize up and be useless for twenty minutes or more. Not twitching. Not scratching. Don't want anything.

Nothing except to understand this.

Manchester, I think, could be the key to this. All the others are so... _small_. They only have the effect that they do because there are so many of them all at once. They are the typical petty concerns; drugs, money, sex. Usual suspects. And then there's Manchester and the whole thing just starts to look like a big joke, like devils playing Truth or Dare. I keep coming back to all those footballers being offed and feeling like that should tell me everything somehow.

I get equally stuck on the phrase, 'Truth or Dare'. This is probably just a withdrawal side effect. I mean, that's ridiculous. I'd say we can be pretty certain adolescent games don't come into it.

Thankfully, something more interesting knocks it out of my head, when there's a knock at the door. Nobody knocks at my door. Nobody knows where I live. Nobody really _knows_ me, I suppose. So it's only slowly and suspiciously that I get up and go to the source of the knocking. Wish I had a spy hole in this door. As it is, I put it on the chain and only open it very slightly at first.

Mycroft, and he says derisively, "Don't tell me this hysteria's gotten to you too." So I take the door off the chain and let him in.

"What are you doing here?"

He lifts the tip of his umbrella from the floor and indicates the map. "However did I guess you'd take an interest in this?"

That doesn't answer my question. But I think I'll live; everything else answers for him. Affected nonchalance, swift but in depth study of the pins in the map. He came to see what I know, if I've spotted anything he might have missed. In a way, though I'm not overly comfortable with the feeling, it's flattering. I'd be more flattered if I had something to tell him.

"I thought it was a hysteria?" Might as well challenge him. For old time's sake, if nothing else.

"Naturally. It's the reporting, you know, it's blown it out of all proportion. Just a couple of unlikely coincidences, that's all. There's nothing connecting these incidents." He says that like he's absolutely sure, like I'm some quivering OAP who hasn't so much as collected their pension this week and need reassurance. That's what makes me laugh. And my laughter is _all_ the excuse Mycroft could ever need to turn and says, "What? I suppose you beg to differ."

"Yes."

"Well? I'm all ears."

"I'm sure you are." It's work again. He's come to me because... Because this is an opportunity for him. It must be. Otherwise, provided it didn't touch him directly, he wouldn't care. Mycroft stands to gain if he can offer some solution to this _hysteria_. "Time to prove yourself again, is it?"

"Sherlock, please..."

"Only I seem to remember the last time you tried to make an impression on the powers-that-be you _lost_ your surviving suspect."

He tosses his head. "Have you a point to make?" Not really. Just knew it would annoy him. It annoyed me when it was all happening, so I might as well take a little revenge where it offers itself, no? I didn't really mean anything by it. I think he knows that. Maybe it helps him decide he should keep me off balance, because he goes on to say the most distinctly uncharacteristic thing I've ever heard leave his lips. "Or are you only saying this because you fancied her?"

Oh, Mycroft should never use the word 'fancy' ever again, not in that context and not in any stage of its declension, no, never. That's the only thing I'm laughing at, by the way, is how ridiculous he sounds. That's all it is.

It's another irony, when you think about it. When I was high I hated him because he was so incredibly, permanently sober. I always imagined he'd have to be on his second joint before he'd even seem _normal_ to me, before we could ever dream of getting him stoned. But now that I'm sober (after a fashion), that's the second time he's made me laugh. But only at how colloquialisms sound when they come from him.

Just to make him stop I point past him, illustrating what I say on the map. "Look, there's no way this is spontaneous. Most of what's going on now could be effect and aftershock certainly, but this is only showing the first two days. Obviously a few of them are continuing sagas. Manchester. It's just a feeling, but something tells me if they get whoever's doing that, they could be onto a winner. And you'll notice the distinct lack of activity around London."

"That came up," he says, and leaves me to make assumptions about what sort of panic meeting it might have come up in. "The consensus seems to be that this is the epicentre."

"No. I'd say the local constabulary might want to stop lending out its members and pull them all home."

"You think London just hasn't started yet?"

"I don't think we've seen a tenth of what's coming. But again, this is all just instinct, what would I know?"

Mycroft shakes his head. That's a little bit flattering as well. "On the contrary. This has been rather interesting. Thank you, Sherlock."

He's leaving. After what, three, four minutes? Of course he is. He's got what he came for, after all. But on his way he stops, as if he only just remembered something. He comes back to my map and points at one of those sporadic little pins. "A hotel in Knightsbridge," I begin to explain.

He stops me, "I know what it is. Take a closer look at it, would you?"


	7. Hotel:Shelter

Sherlock

A hotel in Knightsbridge. On the first day of the so-called spree, rooms that should have been occupied were suddenly found to be empty. No pattern to it. A single businessman from Belgium on the first floor, the couple from the honeymoon suite and a family of five just off the stairwell. Considering it's predominantly a couples sort of establishment, there's something almost determinedly random. Until the media coverage began, staff took it as an unlikely coincidence, three walk-outs all in one night. It didn't help that all the luggage was gone. Only when loved ones started calling up and the news was telling everybody to be paranoid did this turn into a crime scene.

I'm sure the police loved that. I'm sure that was just exactly what they needed when the event was reported on Saturday morning.

Needless to say, business has been a bit quiet since. It's good news for any legitimate investigator and bad news for me. Even slipping in via the service entrance, I feel like somebody's bound to notice. But I make it to the first floor. I can only imagine the security staff, the ones who should be watching the cameras, have rather lost heart. Shutting the stable door, as it were, can be a difficult experience for any professional.

All the room doors require keycard access, but there's one at the end of the hall on a standard latch. Cleaners cupboard, hopefully. It only takes a steel rule to jack it open, and once I'm inside I at least feel protected. You see, the time for housekeeping is long past. Most of them will have gone home for the day, and here, hopefully… Yes, on the back of the door, three smocks hung over each other on the same peg. And in the pocket of the first one, the one with a 'Supervisor' pin on the lapel, a master key.

There's no crime scene tape. For appearance's sake, of course. But Mycroft got me the room number, so I know I won't be disturbing anybody. I don't know what he thinks I might see that the police could have missed. After all, I'm sure they turned the room over, and any evidence will have been taken away. Whether they'll _interpret_ it correctly is another question, but I'm sure they got everything. And nobody's been in this room since them, and that was only twenty-four hours after the disappearances, so what exactly does he expect me to find?

But I came, didn't I? Anyway, if they're all stumped, any fresh insight will be useful, won't it? Any distracti-_abs_traction on the established facts.

So I let myself into the businessman's room. There's nothing to it. Aside from the fact that they've left the bed as he would have left it himself, with rumpled sheets and the covers thrown off to one side, there's nothing of note. A hair clinging to the edge of the plughole. There's a faint scent, a slightly false freshness. It's familiar, but I can't give it a name. Anyway, it's probably just a side effect of crime-scene cleaning.

So how did a man with an overnight bag and briefcase simply vanish from here? There's nothing to tell me.

There's nothing in the honeymoon suite either. Another tousled bed, a short brown hair fallen down between the pillows, the same faint scent. The more I think about it, and where the smell is strongest, it reminds me more of hospitals than crime scenes. Still, the same deep cleansing. Still no bodies or ransom, still no luggage.

The last place to see is the family room. A double and a single in one room, a sofa which folds out into another double in the other. The beds are in the same state as the previous ones were. The sofa, though, has been folded up. Looks unused. In fact, if you weren't paying attention to the fact that there were five people staying here, you might forget that the sofa folds out at all. Same smell here. I spend a while studying the sofa, without opening it. Then I go through to the bedroom. The covers have been kicked off the small bed entirely. A child's slipper, tiny, with a teddy bear's head on the front, remains, left behind.

Just inside the envelope edge of one of the pillowcases on the double, there's another hair. Another short, brown hair, like the other two. Just out of the way enough that it might have been missed but… I mean, you follow, don't you? There's something too neat about it, one hair missed in each of the three rooms. There's something just too contained, too uniform, about all of it. And though I know it's a crime scene, it's frustrating to make no progress even in the light of these facts, so I sit down on the edge of the mattress.

And, to say it short, that solves it.

I lean over and look at the end of the mattress. Just there, hardly noticeable, there are two tiny bulges in the fabric. And I know what the smell is. The comfort of the bed clarified it for me, and the reason I associated it with hospitals. It's activated carbon. It's what they force down your throat if you've been poisoned. Or if you've OD'd. That's not what it's being used  
for here, though. Here it's being used for its odour absorbing properties. With some effort I'm able to lift up that end of the mattress, and see the powdery charcoal layer just beneath.

Well… it still doesn't solve the problem of the luggage, that's true. Or how the killer came and went. And yes, there's a killer. But the rest of it… I look over at the single bed, at the dropped slipper, as I take out my phone and call Mycroft.

"Yes?"

"About that hotel," I say, "If you send police over here, am I going to be arrested?"

"You mean you have something?"

"I think I might have eight bodies, if that suits you…"

* * *

Jim

Emily Maitliss is on the news telling me how Scottish police have been unable to decide if a series of assaults perpetrated on street performers on Edinburgh's Royal Mile were orchestrated publicity stunts or part of the wider rash of 'blatant criminality' sweeping the nation. The bulk of the confusion comes from the Youtube videos of all the attacks, which are being replaced as fast the site can take them down, and have become a global talking point. Already similar attacks are being reported on the banks of the Thames, down where the Eye is, with living statues being provoked to most unstatuelike behaviour before being beaten senseless, and as far away as Calafornia's Venice Beach. The art-lovers (well, let's face it, art-students) of the world have suddenly decided they will have no more of this softcore, commercial performance, it seems.

So I pick up the phone and call somebody who has friends in the art world and recently promised to cripple the tourism-reliant Scottish capital for me. While it's ringing I peel the post-it note off the now-decimated Man U picture (it's looking close to white now), ball it up in my hand and fire it at the bin. Miss. But what the hell, they can't all be successes.

"Hello?"

"Alright, Dani? Stitches out yet?"

"The ones in my belly. My side's not healing over like I'd hoped, so they have to stay in a while longer."

"Why didn't I know about this? When did you hear?"

"That would have been…Saturday?"

"Sorry. I've been busy. Have you been busy, Danielle?"

"I have _no_ idea what you're talking about."

"Didn't spend those four days doing a lot of talking around an Edinburgh art college, did you?"

"Honestly, James, I haven't got the very faintest notion what you're referring to."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Stroke of genius, y'know, getting all them young folk involved. You knew it would go viral, didn't you?"

She waits a while, considering whether to admit to it. But she's smiling when she cuts back in. "You were the one who asked for global coverage."

"And what made your mate Raffles suddenly decide that stately home was the one for him last week?"

"Did he? Oh, I should think just the overall mood of the criminal classes would have been inspiration enough for any thief who wasn't intimately connected with the source and therefore in grave danger if it gets traced back."

"Or any thief who decided she just really, really wanted to be in on it anyway." That' might be a bit cheeky, might be pushing her a bit far. Certainly she goes quiet. But then people so often do when you put the truth right there in front of them.

"Jim, it's panned out for you, so it's all alright now. But you never thought this through. It was pure luck someone didn't come ramming down your door the morning after and you know that. Don't ever put me in the position where I have to choose between standing by you and feeling safe." Hm… Anybody else getting the feeling we're still talking about her wounds? I mean, in part. It's definitely a fair point, about my latest endeavour having had a lot to do with luck. I accept that. But… well, I'm _proud_ of that. I've worked hard to keep it all from coming back on me. The luck involved, well… doesn't that just prove that the instinct was right? But I suppose, like her, I've stayed quiet too long. With a considerate sort of interest, she asks, "Is it what you thought?"

Up on the TV, Emily's moved on, looking a bit nervous actually, talking about regional newsreaders being held hostage in their own homes. Not that she need worry; she's national. It's only the like of Points West I want off the air. No real reason, they just annoy me, all that filler and the cute stories and the local charity work segments. Any 'news' program with a cookery section. I was running out of good ideas, if I'm honest.

"Dani, is there anybody you want dead? Say Jeremy Kyle. I'll feel like a tyrant if I say it myself."

"You didn't answer me."

"Oh, I did, I really did… Say Robbie Williams if you won't say Jeremy Kyle."

"What's he ever done?"

"I've had Rock DJ stuck in my head for fucking _hours_."

"When was the last time you took an hour's break?"

"I can't, I'm getting queried, on average, every eight minutes."

"Make them wait. I'm coming over."

She hangs up so I can't argue with her. I would have, if she'd stayed on the line. Would have talked her out of it and, if I couldn't do that, would have ordered her to stay away and let her side close over so I can have her wriggle into the headquarters of Thames Water and release a fake whistle-blower statement saying how they accepted a bribe of millions to allow toxic waste to be dumped in a reservoir. I've got it written and all, I just need her to email it from an internal computer. I want to see what fucking minister ends up topping himself. I suppose I could give it to somebody else but it wouldn't feel right. Anyway, she doesn't stay on the line, and I don't feel like issuing orders via text or calling her back and… And if I'm honest I want an hour's break. So I spend the forty minutes or so while she's in the taxi putting as much as I can to bed, leaving the workload as light as possible, knowing it'll be huge as ever by the time I come back to it. And by the time I hear her at the door I feel like I'm sort of ready for human company.

Danielle, it seems, begs to differ. "Sweet Jesus," she mutters on sight, then skims straight past me to the kitchen. She takes the pot out of the coffee maker, empties it down the sink.

"Yeah, point taken, love." But no, she hasn't made her point yet. Because she then lifts up the pot and throws it to the tiles so it smashes into a hundred jagged, lethal bits. I don't cry out, because I'm not upset, and even if I really was panicking in my heart which I'm absolutely not, I wouldn't give her the satisfaction. I just tell her, "There's instant in the cupboard."

She starts laughing. "Bollocks there is." Trying to stay pissed off is too much effort. She sets me off. Then, while I'm laughing, while I'm weak, produces a very tempting, brand-new, unopened bottle of Bell's out of her handbag.

"You're a bad person," I say, "when you know how chronically busy I am."

"Oh, I don't mind. I'll drink alone."

"Bollocks you will."


	8. Duvet:Mattress

Jim

Things were worse than I'd thought. Dani made me count back to my last drink, and then past that to my last full night's sleep. We're one tumbler in when I start falling asleep. She sees me shaking myself and stands out of the armchair. Reaching over me, she pulls the cashmere throw down on top of me. But I throw it off again. That's not what it's for, it's purely decorative. It'll get wrecked if I start actually using it. "Jim, don't be a child."

"You don't get it; between eleven and one is peak time for people getting in touch."

"You are an overgrown teenager, now go to bed." I start again, trying to explain, to make it clearer to her that if anything's going to go tits-up it'll _obviously_ be when I'm in bed, but she's not having it. "Why don't I take a shift then? Believe me, I'll wake you if it's anything sensational."

This is a trap. That actually sounded sensible, so this is some sort of trap. I don't trust her with it; she's looking at me like I'm a wreck who doesn't know what's good for him anymore and I'm liable to get up in the morning and find the whole thing shut down and like it was never there. 'What big event, Jim? What on earth are you talking about?', in her best impression of an angel, through that girl-scout pout she does when she gets accused of something true and you look and see there's nothing behind the eyes to even analyse, and I'll never know. She'll get to Moran before I can as well, and get him in on it, convince him that it's the right course of action, to Gaslight me, to make me think it was all some weird drunken dream and it didn't work out how I thought anyway so obviously I'd never try it in real life and…

Jesus Christ, would you _listen_ to this shite? "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Of course not. I think I can manage. Now, to bed with you." Momentarily, she forgets herself; she puts her hand under my arm to pull me up. Through my sleeve, obviously, but it's rolled up, and I get the brush of her little finger and pull away. "Sorry. You just look so pathetic…"

"Oh, thanks."

"Really. You're running your own sweatshop. I wish I understood why. I mean, I know what you _thought_ you were doing. Don't know if you do, but that's beside the point…"

I'm peeling myself up and she's following me. I feel her sliding my phone out of my back pocket, like she doesn't trust me not to be working via that all night. "You're going to tell me, aren't you?", and I don't like to be over-eloquent about things, but this is one time I would break out the word 'rueful' to describe my tone. "What I thought I was doing… Do me a favour, if you're going to analyse me, can you do it in a German accent? Then I can pretend you're imaginary."

"Not allowed to offend the Germans again. That would be strike three, after what happened in the Reeperbahn, and the time I got pissed after a job and they found me belting '1966' to the tune of _Ooh Ah Cantona…_ Anyway, it hardly matters."

"_Then why are you following me?_ Bloody woman…"

"Mostly out of pity. I'd untie your shoes and tuck you in if I didn't think it would give you nightmares."

I turn and stab a finger towards the office. "Go. Computer. Watch. Now."

* * *

Sherlock

Mycroft said to stay where I was and he'd send the officer in charge. Said he'd be discreet and no, I wouldn't be arrested. 'His people', whatever that means, would see that I was immune. To quote something very interesting directly, he said, 'If I put you onto something, naturally you'll enjoy the same status as any sanctioned investigator'.

It's interesting partially due to the sheer volume of jargon that might be bestowed upon one relatively short sentence. Partially due to the use, intentional or not, of the present-continuous. As if implying he might 'put me onto something' again in future.

But honestly, I'll think about that later. You see, he said to stay where I was. Needless to say, I am no longer sitting on the double bed. But I'm still in the room. I can still see it. Now that I've noticed them, the twin bulges in the end of the mattress are glaringly obvious. It's not just the sight itself anymore. No, when you're forced to stay with them, the mind necessarily wanders. Given that the bulges are rather arresting, it hasn't wandered far though. I can hear in my head a man, a husband, a father of three, complaining that he was too long for the bed, that his feet would be freezing all night.

I'm thinking of the folded-up sofa bed in the next room, really like two small, box mattresses, side-by-side, and now that they're folded on top of each other, face-to-face. I'm trying not to look at that stupid teddy bear slipper across the room.

Then, out in the other room, the door opens, and a man's voice thanks whatever lackey brought him up here and let him in. A smoker's voice, and a heavy smoker. Heavy footsteps. I know him even before I see him; one of these burnt-out coppers who couldn't care less anymore. The kind that thinks in statistics rather than victims. He's probably pissed off that I've found the bodies; now he can't just fob it off as missing persons anymore. God, I hate the type. If you sign up to work together for a safer London, you ought to at least pretend you're interested.

But then he steps into the room and, after a second of peeling back the reddened eyes and the bags beneath them and the two days of stubble, the need for a haircut, I find I _recognize_ this supposedly-hopeless bureaucrat.

"Lestrade?"

It takes him an extra few seconds to place me. Even then, all I get is, "Oh, for fuck's sake…"

"You spoke to my brother then?"

"No, to a woman…" P.A. I don't know whether to be offended he doesn't feel the need to deal with me personally or proud he doesn't feel the need to deal with my personally anymore. But anyway, Lestrade's decided that whether he recognizes me or not is irrelevant. He peels his struggling eyes open an extra millimetre or so and adds, "She said something about bodies?"

"Were you in charge of whoever went over the rooms?" He nods. "Why didn't they open out the sofa bed next door? Why didn't they care that the same brown hairs were present in all three rooms?"

"Look, this isn't a murder investigation yet-"

"So?"

"There aren't the resources to devote too much attention to hotel walk-outs."

See? This is what I was talking about; any police officer who uses the word 'resources' ought to be stripped of his position and promptly shot. "They could have at least turned over the mattresses."

That seems to be the hint he needs. He, like I did, avoids the single, the child's bed, and goes to the double. That bed is far heavier than it has any right to be, but he manages to lift the corner and look underneath. Then, again like I did, he pulls out his phone can calls a number he's able to find with the speed of familiarity.

Tells somebody called Sonia to get Forensics down here now, and he doesn't care what other scene she has to pull them off to do it.

* * *

Jim

I don't sleep well. It feels really ungrateful, since Dani's going to such lengths to help out, but mostly I just toss and turn. There's just so much going on in my head. And yeah, it's all crap I don't really need to think about it, but I can't help it. So I grab a half-hour's doze here and there. But eventually, about four-thirty, I get up, wrap the duvet round me and make my way through to the office. Dani looks up, mouth open, about to tell me to go back to bed. But she's tired and slow and I get in first; "Look, look, I'm bringing bed with me. See? Anything to report?"

"Insomnia's a key indicator for stupid levels of overwork, y'know."

"Did you really sing _1966_ in Germany?"

"Yes."

"So when I had to bail you from the Berlin heist, that wasn't really anything to do with suspicion-of-grand-larceny, was it?"

"Jim, you're making me tired looking at you; will you at least try and lie down on that couch?"

"I thought you weren't going in for psychoanalysis?" She gives me such a look, even by the half-light of just the desk-lamp, that I really do try. But after just a couple of minutes staring up at the ceiling, "You're really not going to tell me what you think I thought I was doing, are you?"

Irritably, she spins the computer monitor away from her, turns the lamp around to throw its light on me instead. Rather than interrogate me under those hot lights, I think she must be watching my reactions. Or at the very least, she doesn't want me to see hers. I keep my eyes on the ceiling, stay as much inside the duvet as possible. But I _am_ listening. "You thought you'd make a mark. It was a power grab. Proving that you could do so much worse to this country than it could ever be ready for. And the reason it didn't work, the reason you don't feel any better, is because you can't. It doesn't work if nobody knows you exist. You can't do it without stepping forward, making a spectacle of yourself, and either getting arrested or shot. Can't do it and stay the man behind the curtain. Will that do? Or would you like me to repeat it in a German accent?"

I stay quiet. Let her think I've fallen asleep. Not sure she's buying it, though.

* * *

Sherlock

It's taken them hours upon hours. Forensics have a very precise, very time-consuming way of doing things. No wonder they're getting nothing done with this week's increased workload. Lestrade is yawning. He's so exhausted he even forgot to hate me, and when I stepped out to smoke he followed along. Then some young constable who calls him 'boss' comes out looking really rather green. Says they'll let us in now.

The family suite looks like it's landed in from another planet now. Full of beaming lights, covered in white and transparent plastic sheets. The smell of decay has overwhelmed the carbon. They remembered to unfold the sofa, and painstakingly undid the stitches that had held closed massive slashes in the fabric bases. Beyond those, smothered and blue-lipped, blotchy from lying so long, twin boys of nine or ten, curled up as though sleeping top and tail, side by side.

In the other room, the double mattress has been moved to the floor, and opened along similar slashes. In hollows carved into the filling, scarred by springs clipped away short, mother and father lie side by side, her arm across him, her head on his chest. His toes pushing through the end wall.

And there's another smaller bed in the room. Lestrade won't look so I go over. She couldn't be six years old, still wearing her other slipper. The covers from her bed were on the floor because she's holding tight to a blanket of her own, cheap and much-loved fleece with a purple dragon on it.

It's an awful thing, but doesn't it make you wonder how the honeymoon couple upstairs were left…

"Their clothes," I tell him, "will probably have been turfed down into the hotel laundry and will have gone unclaimed. The luggage was then used to take the mattress stuffing and the springs away. At an educated guess anyway."

He wanders over next to me, looking down at the little girl. Says, "Yeah," and leaves it at that.


	9. Reasons:Options

Sherlock

I didn't stay to see the other beds being opened up. First I went up to the top floor, where there ought to have been some sort of feed room from the security cameras. Not finding one, I went to the ground, told them I was with the police and asked where it was. The girl on the desk, already looking scared and harried since they're having to throw out all their existing guests, shook her head and glared at me. "I wish you people would talk to each other," she balks. Then lowered her voice to a hiss and said, "We told you all this before, there is no feed. They're not even real cameras. They're just a deterrent."

I got a good look at one before I left, just so I won't fall for that again. The lenses are dull black with nothing behind them. That's how I'll be able to tell in future.

Sent Lestrade a text telling him to ask around about the luggage trolleys they take up and down in the service lift, if any were missing or contained traces, but he hasn't text me back. I'm at home, debating whether or not to take that pin out of the map or leave it up just to represent that it happened. Chain-smoking again. It's too late to go to bed and anyway, how could I expect to sleep? So I'm just fussing over the stupid map and trying to think of anything, anything, anything that isn't five corpses, all tucked up inside their mattresses, in their pyjamas, in their accustomed positions, as if they just kept on sleeping until they started rotting away, how could I ever expect to sleep?

Please, make no mistake, I've seen bodies before. Death does not disturb me. I've come too close it on too many occasions to really care anymore. But that's it, that's the word, that's what disturbs me, _care_. The _care_ that was taken over the corpses and their display and hiding them away and masking the smell and… and the three hairs. That means something. If he ever texts me back about the trolley I'll remind Lestrade to look into that, since I can't. And if he never texts me back I'll get Mycroft to put it to him. Yes, that's what I'll do, that's what I'll think about.

My hand stretches out, a finger to tap ash, but after that it just keeps tapping. I hate this. I know what this means. I'm so preoccupied with keeping those lovingly-handled corpses out of my mind that something else is getting the opportunity to slip back in.

That wasn't the point. The point was for it to be a distraction, to keep all of this away. But that's the thing about forgetting; it's the one process I've ever come across in all my existence that you cannot safely force upon yourself. It's the one thing that _must_ happen organically. Because, short of knocking my head against the wall until it happens, the more I tell myself to forget, the more I remember.

It would be so easy. It would be like sleeping. I'm useless to anybody in this state, all wound up like this, and it would relax me. There are a thousand easy, easy reasons to do it. It would take me far, far away from all that… that _craftsmanship_. There was artistry at work in those hotel rooms. A bleak and sickening sort, yes, absolutely, of course, but no less worthy for begging to be denied. _Guernica_ is beautiful, as is the richness of a bruise, the sound of a bottle breaking. Nobody thinks about it because it's difficult, but it is, and if you don't want to think about it how do you distract yourself? If you're weak and sick then what can you possibly do? And if it's a choice between living like that and doing one silly little thing you're not really supposed to, what sort of a choice is that? This isn't just justification, this is _logic_, damn it and if there are a thousand easy reasons to do it and only one against (and at that one which completely defies articulation), and if suddenly I'm able to remember all the words there are in telling myself to shut up and just go and do it then…

Then why not?

Heaven knows how long I'd sit here looking at a tiny, dead little girl chewing on her thumbnail, wearing one teddy bear slipper, if there were nothing in the world that could stop me seeing it.

I'm sorry, Mycroft. I know you tried, I knew that twenty-four hours ago, just as soon as you even asked. I know you tried. And we did really well, it was working but… But I'm sorry.

My resolve lasts about as long as the cigarette does. I stub it out, put my coat back on and fetch a couple of notes from the emergency money, under the skull. There's no hesitation this time, no shuffling at the door. It's not as if I'm even trying to convince myself that this is a good or healthy thing to do. I know it isn't. I just don't care. I know, already, how I'm going to feel tomorrow when I have to go through the sickness all over again, and so soon after last time, and when so many other avenues have been offered to me. The hate will crush me just as much as anything else. And it will hurt, oh, Christ, will it hurt…

Good.

Let the illness come. Let it do its worst, and wrack me body and soul. I don't want to be able to peel myself up from the bathroom tiles. I want it to hurt. I want it to hurt so much there's nothing left in me _but_ the hurt, and nothing else, and there'll be no part of me spare to be selfless and think of anyone else. I want to disappear into it. That terrible place at the heart where me and my sickness are all there is, that place I was so desperate to escape less than seven days ago, take me back there. Christ, just let me get back there.

* * *

Jim

I must have slept in the end, because I wake up still on the couch. There's a knee in my ribs, and Dani standing over me, muttering something about '_Mein Fuhrer_'. I point up at her in warning; "Now don't. What if I need you to go to Frankfurt for… I don't know, work or sausages or something, and they've barred you?" Sitting up I remind her she's already barred from Japan and take the cardboard coffee cup she presses into my hand. She sits down where my feet were and drinks from one of her own. "You're buying me a new coffee machine, by the way."

"I will be controlling your caffeine intake until I know it's healthy. You will get a new coffee machine when I decide you can be trusted."

"Now who's the great dictator?"

She puts a finger to her lips. "Don't forget about the sausages." She seems in a better mood, anyway. Or maybe it's because I've had a bit of rest, everything seems a little brighter.

"Any messages this morning?"

"Just the one. An excited, Peter-Lorre-sounding gentleman rang up and oozed down the phone how, and I quote, 'they finally found the sleeping beauties'. He swore it would mean something to you." Well, it's about time. They were going to open those beds someday and just find skeletons instead of stuffing. I explain what happened there to her and, once she gets over her initial revulsion (I felt the same, but a client's a client), we end up taking bets on what the tabloids are going to call him. There's smart money on both 'Sandman' and 'Night Nurse'.

She texts Moran and his answer comes back, 'What's wrong with 'mass-murderer'?'

"You did say 'tabloid' in the message, didn't you?"

Dani shrugs, "Maybe he's being sarcastic? You can ask him when he gets here."

"What?"

"I said I'd make breakfast. What with you having slept, you've got something to celebrate, and he's off on his hit-slash-dirty-weekend as of this afternoon so… I thought I'd get us all together." Oh, she just _thought_. It's never a good thing, when Dani starts _thinking_, y'know. Dani always thinks of things that complicate matters. But… But she does make a nice fry-up, so maybe I'll trust her for an hour or so. Then she says, over her shoulder, all sweetness and light, "You don't _mind_, do you?"

That's how I know she's got more cooking than eggs and bacon.

I follow her out of the office, on my way to change out of this fetching t-shirt and duvet combo, watching every move. I know this sounds paranoid again, but honestly, I watch her butter toast and the first thought comes into my head is of being buttered up. Naturally I try and put that sort of thing away, not giving in to that sort of thinking. Moran and Danielle are my very nearest associates. They would never have gotten that close if I had anything reason to suspect that they would ever plot against me. Something might well be _going on_, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. No, they couldn't have gotten this close to me if I'd ever thought for a second I couldn't handle them. I'm alright. Totally alright.

Moran is coming in just as I come out from getting dressed. It's the first I've seen him since he finished his football team. He looks… I'm sorry to say this, because it's making me feel ill, but honestly? He looks post-coital. He's rubbing his hands together, grinning all over his face. "Morning, Jim-" shouting past me towards the kitchen, "Where's this feed then?"

The call comes back, "Don't worry, dear, I'll _whistle_…"

"She just call me a dog?" he says to me. Then grins again, "Lighten the fuck up, mate, crack a smile!"

Moran is on a whole other plane of happy. I'm so glad for him. I'd get him to kill every footballer in the country if I thought he could keep this up. I suppose it's been the process of getting them all, right down to the goalie, and now the fact that he gets to go and hide his head… I'm sorry, I can't finish that. But really, I am, honestly, glad for him, that he turned out to be so easily pleased, that all his dissatisfactions have apparently been solved by one busy, dangerous week.

Again, I find myself following them around in my own home. He goes through and starts sniffing things over Dani's shoulder, until she puts him back. Turns around and pinches his cheek, hard, "How was Manchester then, Sebby?"

Look at him. Look at his eyes, _drifting_, fuck's sake. Honest to God, the _lunatics_ I've surrounded myself with, it's just plain _distasteful_.

But anyway, me and him get seated along the breakfast bar, as you do. Dani dishes up, but stays standing. Easier for her, probably. And then she stops looking at me. Moran talks and talks about Manchester, about his revelation, and she doesn't even have a crude joke to make about any of it. So after a while, I put out a hand to him. "Listen, please don't think I'm being really rude. I'm truly happy for you and obviously I do want to hear every detail. But can we have a To Be Continued, for just five minutes here?"

"What's the matter?" he says, offended despite all my attempts to placate him, and completely clueless. But Danielle has looked up from picking at her breakfast.

Just to steady myself, I fold a slice of bacon up inside my toast and bite into it. Nodding at her, mouth full, "Go on ahead there, love. Floor's yours."

It makes her nervous, being called on so directly. But she tosses her head and starts in regardless. Says, "Do you remember what we were talking about, before you fell asleep?"

"Yes."

"There's a way around it."

Of course there is, but I'm supposed to spot it. "Well? I'm all ears."

"All you really need is another face."

There's a moment's silence. Moran, because I don't think he can bear the thought of anything serious right now, starts laughing, "Jesus, Dani, between calling me a dog and now-"

"Shut up," I tell him. "She's onto something."


	10. Maybe:Never

Jim

Well, in a very brutish, blunt instrument, very Danielle sort of a way she was on to something. I made her shut up then too. Let her know I understood what she was telling me, but then I made her shut up. No sense ruining a good breakfast with business. I let Moran go back to his story instead. Even though it was a story that was utterly certain to feature the phrase, 'And then I shot the bastard', eleven times plus the substitutes, he needed to tell it, so I let him. He's an incredible creature, y'know; if something, like that little interruption for instance, perplexes him, but then appears to be dropped? Moran just _bypasses_ it completely. It's good to have him around when I don't want something like a nice breakfast ruined.

But breakfast is over now. All cleaned up and everything returned to normal. Moran's on his way to the airport. I sent Danielle off to a man who runs a props warehouse in the West End and some of them aren't actually props. Obviously she knew I was getting rid of her, but she loves a shopping list. I think they're a challenge to her. Couldn't resist, in the end, and anyway, I wasn't giving her a choice. She wants to get involved, that's fine, but no more writing her own ticket. This is my big play and I'm going to stay in control of it.

So I got this morning's queries out of the way. They were unremarkable, but for the classic, the one for the Christmas card, 'I have been lying on the same roof with the money for three days now. Have you had any ideas yet?' Yeah. Three days ago I had the idea the guy was a moron and really unworthy of any further ideas. And I told him so. And he's stayed on the roof.

I sent back, 'Jump off and believe. My trained eagles will catch you.'

So we'll see how that pans out. It has the potential for hilarity, I think you'll agree. But yeah, other than him, nothing really stands out. I got it all done inside half-an-hour or so and then put it all to one side. Moving papers off the desk, I found a print-out of the map. Dani must have gotten bored sometime last night. She given it a viewer friendly, TV weather report feeling, doodling a bagpiper getting hit over the head with a mallet and a football-shaped bomb over the appropriate portions of the country. Northern Ireland is under one giant mushroom cloud and I'm trying to think back to my various correspondences, but I don't think… I mean, I'm _hoping_ I wasn't tired or irritable enough to send nuclear warheads. I'm not even sure where I'd get one of those but, well, you never know. But I don't think so. I hope not…

Anyway, the other thing she's done is drawn many big, lazy red circles around the Greater London area, and a big lazy red question mark in the middle of it. Bitch. So bloody sarky sometimes… Obviously London's gotten off light. Everybody knows, you don't shit on your own doorstep.

Oh, but then again, everybody knows that. Really I should have picked, like, Hull or Stoke or some other arsehole-of-nowhere settlement and given that a wide berth. Yeah, well, if there'd been any planning time I would have come to that. As it is…

As it is…

Another face. Like a puppet. Somebody with no honest connection to anything, but who can focus it, centralize it. Somebody to be me, but leave me free to work. And yeah, this person will be captured at some stage, and either imprisoned for a long time or, more likely, shot. Not only will the spooks show up to shoot them, but if they're captured they're liable to get all truthful and I'll have to get Moran to visit. But then I'll just replace that one with another one.

Oh, yeah, yeah, it's a great plan, it's a work of minor genius, absolutely. Barring, of course, one rather large obstacle; where do you find one who would be headcase enough to take that on? Can't just frame one; their cluelessness would be too obvious. Can't frame somebody who already knows of my existence because… well, they already know of my existence.

Dani was onto something. But the more I think about it, the reason I didn't come up with it myself is because it's something that doesn't go anywhere.

Thinking the problem over has clarified it. Here it is, in short, easily comprehensible sentences. I have, in the last week, bent this country over and fucked it rigid – if you'll pardon the metaphor. If you'll forgive me extending it, Britain won't be able to sit down for a year, and it'll be a long time before it stops thinking about me. But nobody has realized yet exactly what's happened. So what I need, in fine, is a way to test their reaction. I need to know how the world would feel about me, but without ever actually being real or present in any way.

…Yeah, maybe I should just concentrate on London for now.

I put the map up big on the projector and, for a relaxing while, fire paperclips at it with an elastic band. Doing pretty well, too. The only time I miss is because the phone's ringing. The scrambled one, the work-line, so I don't answer with Hello or anything. I just pick up and wait.

After confused seconds, "Hello? Mr Moriarty?" Ah, it's Peter Lorre again… the Night Nurse (it's totally going to be Night Nurse. While I've got him on the line I bring up the Sun's website and look for breaking news)

"Yes?"

"Did your secretary give you my message?" I have to cover the phone a second until I stop laughing. Wait 'til I tell her. I'll bet this scumbag thinks he knows what cruelty and pain are. He's seen nothing yet, let me tell you…

"She did, yes. I suppose you'll be wanting somewhere to hide your head now they've found them."

"No, no, no," he says, very quickly. Really does have a very scary voice, y'know. "No, I am ready for another _challenge_."

Aw, _such_ relish! How can I tell him to fuck off in the light of that kind of enthusiasm? Aw, he's a good lad, at heart, this one. He can't help it if he sounds like he should be voicing a cartoon germ for a Domestos ad.

So why not? He's London-based anyway. I've no darts to throw at the map, but I've got a street guide in the desk. So I pull it out, drop it on the desk, and with my eyes shut I put my finger down on the page it opens at. "Um… Kitchener Road. Small, residential street, right out Friday Hill way."

I hang up, and give the map a new pin, out Friday Hill way.

* * *

Sherlock

The sound of my phone ringing brings me round. I'm in a bath, with the shower curtain pulled. Why was that? Oh, yeah, people were still using this bathroom, that's right… Hate these bloody dosses, but that's the point; I'm not bringing any junk back to the flat. The flat stays clean, even if I can't.

It's actually quite nice, back here behind the curtain. It's private and quiet. Except for the phone, of course, that's loud and echoing and insistent and doing my head in, so I have to stop it. I fish it out of my pocket and, without looking, hit the cancel button. But then a couple of seconds later there's a mumble, somebody speaking to me from very far away. I look down, actually open my eyes this time. It was upside-down. I hit answer instead of cancel.

"Yes, hello," I cover too quickly, "Hello?"

"Sherlock, is that you?"

Lestrade. I clear as much of last night out of my throat as I can, end up coughing. It's hard to feel ashamed of it, though; he doesn't sound much better off.

"I just thought I'd let you know," he says, "We got him."

"What?"

"Hotel killer."

"…What?" No. No, hold on. A killer who'd put that much time and effort into the kill and the cover-up, who had the better part of a week as a headstart? And they've got him? How long was I unconscious? No, there's something wrong here.

"The hairs in the beds. They weren't human. Made to look like it, yeah, but artificial. The lab came through with that in the early hours. Sent a fella back round to the hotel and they were able to tell him, straight away, yeah there's a concierge with a cheap toupee, came down in the lift with a luggage trolley on Thursday night. That was it cracked, once the hairs came through." He sounds happy, or as close to it as I'd expect. It's the relief of a man who can move a file off his desk and along to the courts.

"Lestrade, I-"

"Oh, God," he moans, with hate in it, "What is it now?"

If I just burst his bubble, he'll hang up and never want to come near me again, Mycroft or no Mycroft. What's the best way to handle this? "Nothing. I just wanted to ask if I could… see him. I mean, if he's still in your hands."

Most unorthodox, I know, but then again so was my involvement from the beginning. He appreciates that. Has to turn it over in his mind, but in the end he comes back, "Where are you? I'll send someone."

In a bath and other than that I won't be entirely sure until I step outside and see the street names. I delayed a little more in coming here by wandering farther than strictly necessary and, well, I forget just how far. "No, that's alright." I check behind the leather patch on the back of my jeans, and yes, the emergency money's still there. Old dosser's trick, that, in case someone goes over your pockets while you're out. "That's alright, I'll get a cab."

"I'll meet you at reception." He sounds agreeable. Maybe he's glad of the break. Maybe he's just relieved I didn't take away his supposed victory. Yet.

I could be wrong. The whole way over in the taxi, I know I could be wrong. I hope I am. I hope it's just been a one-off, maniac bellboy goes postal, nothing more to it than that. I hope I get there and take one look at him and I can turn and shake Lestrade's hand, say well done. But something about it just doesn't sound right.

He still looks proud of himself when I get there. He meets me with a coffee, to repay the cigarette he borrowed last night. A most agreeable arrangement, since I'm trying to stretch the last of this high until we finish here. Just to make matters worse, as he leads me down to the holding cells, passing me off as a witness, he says, "I was talking to your brother. Properly this time, not just the secretary. He tells me you're… recovering?"

Well, he shouldn't have. But Lestrade and I first met last year and I was a lot worse off than I am now, so I can see how the subject might have come up.

This morning, as I am, I can't really think of what to say to him. "If you don't mind," is where I get in the end, "it's sort of a private thing."

"Of course." And it really, genuinely sounds as though he's accepting it. The same way Mycroft did. The way I didn't expect either of them too. He's quiet after that, but not in an offended way. And then he's signing us in and we're on the dark side of two-way glass, looking through to an interview room, where a man has his bald, liver-spotted pate in his hands over a table, and is crying.

I take one look at him. Turn around to Lestrade and can only look at him. He lifts his brow, daring me to challenge him and I just can't help myself; pointing through the mirror, "Oh, come on!"

He folds his arms, starts to look how he sounded on the phone. But I've got him here now where he can't hang up on me.

"A divorcee with custody of his children, who was only covering that night-shift when he supposedly murdered all those people, which was probably a last minute thing. The only exercise he gets is playing football with his son which is, I presume, where you picked him up; well done, traumatise the child while you're at it, did anybody see the boy home? Thought not… Lestrade, take one look at that middle-aged, smiling, church-going customer service rep and tell me he could move a double mattress that _didn't_ have two carefully posed dead bodies in it."

It's all there. White band on the third left finger, none of the marks of the sleepless single man, not to mention that tie could only have been chosen by a child, the slight mud spatter on the sides of his trousers, one tell-tale round pressure spot of it. He picked his son up from school and they messed about with a football on the way home. He's heavy, yes, but none of it's muscle. That alone should have been enough to clear him of all suspicion.

Lestrade could quite happily leap across the room and tear my tongue out by the root. He doesn't. He starts in, "Do me a favour, Sherlock…"

"I take it you have staff rotas for that night? Because I notice you didn't correct me when I said night-shift and, hollowing out seven mattresses, murdering eight people, I'd say we're looking at eight to ten hours work there already, wouldn't you?"

He cuts the air with both hands, as if calling an end to all this; "We're charging him."

With honesty, with a touch of moral superiority I probably have no right to feel, I tell him, "If I'd thought for a second you would ever say that to me… You know I'm the only reason you kept your job after-"

"After you were the reason I nearly lost it, yeah."

He's glaring, not at me, but over my shoulder at the door. "I take it we're finished here?"

"Bye-bye, now."


	11. Mycroft:Valentin

Sherlock

You know, sometimes I feel like I must not be a very balanced person. A balanced, ordinary person wouldn't react to a betrayal and rejection like Lestrade's in the way that I have. Try and imagine that you live a life with very few role models, very few people to respect. Not that I viewed Lestrade as a role model of _any_ kind but… But he was marginally less than unbearable and in my experience that makes him pretty much unique in his profession. Or it used to, anyway. Try and imagine what it's like to be a person who does not give up esteem and deference readily.

And then imagine them telling you they've turned into a mindless bloody desk jockey obsessed with clearance rates rather than convictions, happy to have the wrong man so long as he's there to have. What would you do? Have a stiff drink? Shout at the walls for a while, certainly. Punch something?

I'll be honest, I walked out of that little room fully expecting to roll back into that doss house bath and stay there until either somebody moved me or this month's rent ran out. It seemed a foregone conclusion. I didn't even argue it with myself, there didn't seem to be any point in arguing. And yet, I walked out of there and just came home. Didn't even want it.

Hit the comedown pretty hard, as you might expect. Actually spent the rest of that day in my _own_ bath. Went into an awful fever, too, a side effect I haven't suffered since the very beginning. I broke it with ice, patience, and standard, pound-shop paracetamol. I can't keep anything stronger than that in the flat, it would be a breach of the safety and sanctuary. Spent the usual hours curled up and unable to uncurl, deeply nauseous and utterly stifled, but to hell with that. I'm done talking about that.

You see, dealing with Lestrade taught me one very clear, very simple lesson. Something I really should have spotted before now. I'm disappointed with myself. Could blame the withdrawal, of course, but then I'm finished with that now, aren't I?

Because I learned, and was left in no doubt whatsoever, that nobody cares. Nobody listens. Whatever you know, whatever you're going through, if it's going to make their life harder they will ignore it. I suppose it's fair enough when you think about it. Provided, of course, that it's a worldwide condition. If everybody's doing it you don't want to be the one doormat left in the world, do you? If that's the case, then I absolutely understand and I intend to hop merrily up on the bandwagon as soon as it's proven to me. I must be old-fashioned. Must be crushingly, laughably sentimental, because I had this ridiculous idea that some part of living in the world was trying to make it better.

Obviously I haven't been exactly pulling my weight for a couple of years but… Well, who could blame me, if that's what happens when I try?

So I've stopped dwelling on the pain, as far as is possible. And my reaction has been to do very well indeed.

The only needle I'm thinking of is the one at the Chelsea and Westminster which is responsible for the most recent Angel of Death killings. There's one ward sister there who Lestrade and his ilk would probably _love_ to lock up, but it's nothing to do with her, it's in the needles themselves, a batch of tainted hypodermics sent in with the shipments. It could be national, and quality testing should be implemented immediately. At least, that's what the Health Secretary said after Mycroft told her about it. They've caught it in Liverpool and Basingstoke and Brighton so far, and it's only been five or six hours.

The only junk I'm thinking of is in a scrapyard outside Blackpool where I think they'll find the missing 747 from the airport. I liked that one. That was slightly comic, wouldn't you agree? A whole airplane just disappearing. It sounds like a magic trick rather than an actual criminal act. Actually, I'm not entirely unsure smoke and mirrors weren't involved. What I like most about it is how lighthearted it is. Contrary to the common assumptions floating about (if I hear the word 'terrorist one more time…), I'd wager that plane was taken for no other reason than the pleasure of taking a plane. There won't be a thing wrong with it when they retrieve it, wait and see.

In amongst the rioting and house-breaking and all the murders, it's just nice to see somebody having a laugh, that's all. Doing something a bit interesting. And the idea that it might just be sitting in a scrapyard, dear, oh dear…

I didn't see fit to bother Mycroft with that one, but twenty minutes ago I posted the theory to an online forum, posing as somebody from the area who had seen it. I think there must be police on the way there now; people are posting photographs. A noted newspaper cartoonist has thrown up a hasty sketch of a jumbo jet with a string of tinsel hanging from the wing and a star on its nose. There's a gent in a flat cap stood in the foreground saying, 'It's a Christmas tree, mate."

Don't know how he found out about it, but a text comes in from my brother which simply says, _What kind of person might make a joke like that?_

Oh.

Well, that's a thing about a joke, isn't it? You don't think much about where they come from because you're busy laughing. But he's got a point. Who steals a 747 to no purpose whatsoever in the middle of a crime wave that has most people afraid to leave the house? What's wrong with this picture?...

Oh, now this really is interesting. There must be more like this. There must be others that fit the conditions. The newsreaders are one. The mass death threats from disparate strangers at that wanker from the morning talk show, the one that just bellows at everyone, that's another. And there's a difference, there must be, between those and the rest of it. The masses are roaring, tearing themselves open as every urge suddenly becomes an imperative. Take what you want, kill them if you hate them, screw whoever catches your eye, do what thou wilt the whole of the law. And every so often, just out of the wailing, there's a little giggle.

Manchester. Yes, so fifteen men were shot dead but the internet is insisting to me that irate Liverpool fans are to blame. If they're still laughing then maybe somebody meant them to. And the street performers. I'm not being cruel, but who wouldn't watch a so-called living statue get kicked to death? Or anybody who counts 'standing really still' amongst their life skills…

No? Just me?

I knew Manchester was different, I knew from the beginning. So who's laughing? I put it to Mycroft, _I'll get back to you_.

* * *

Jim

I can't tell you how disconcerting it is to wake up because a cat has suddenly just leapt into your face. Must have fallen asleep on the sofa, and the way I jump awake it's a miracle I save the laptop propped against my knees from total catastrophe. No pun intended. This, by the way, is all thoughts I've put together in the few seconds since. My _immediate_ reaction was along the lines of "Sweet fucking Christ," I think…

And now that the initial shock is over, and the laptop has been righted, and the offending cat is sitting on my stomach watching my face like it might explode any moment, I can start to figure out what the fuck is going on.

Slowly becoming aware of myself, I see one thing which explains it all; Danielle is leaning over the back of the couch, smiling, dead pleased with herself, and she has that laser keychain of hers in her hand again. "Good afternoon, Mr Van Winkle." The cat, I presume, is still waiting for the little red dot to appear on my forehead again, and is content to wait. Danielle reaches down and lifts up away from me. "Valentin and I were on our way to have his fuzzy little balls cut off, and Seb rang up to say you weren't answering your phone. So we rushed over, expecting the worst, only to find that you'd just crashed after a week and a half of overwork, and decided to give you a shock for having us so worried."

"Don't bring the brute animal into this; he only works as you will him-"

"What a way to talk about poor Sebastian!"

"-He's scratched me, fuck's sake… And what did you mean, afternoon?"

Stroking her vicious little friend, mumbling like it doesn't even matter, "S'three o'clock, darling." Considering I never meant to sleep I don't think it's an overreaction to try and sit up, or maybe it's the swearing she objects to. "Stop. Stop it. Stay where you are. All the messages on your landline are from Seb and your mobile's in your pocket so I should think you could have felt that go off. They found the plane, the Hell Bunny virus has been identified and they're working to isolate it, and I get these stitches out tomorrow so Thames Water is a-go. Anything else?"

Of course there bloody is! It's three o'clock in the day and I've just been wakened by a creature apparently composed entirely out of claws, there _must_ be.

"…What did Moran want?"

"Nothing. He just called to check in and then worried when he couldn't get in touch."

"Can Valentin still make his appointment? Because I really want to tell you to go away and that would at least _sound_ like I was being polite about it." She goes. Not all the way away, but into the kitchen. "And put your bloody Russian out on the balcony, would you?" Without a word, she goes about it. Valentin doesn't complain either, but then again, he's had a narrow escape today. So I sit up and check my messages, the various feeds from the clients and the police and everything else I've been watching. Much as I hate to admit it, I really don't seem to have missed much. "And go and check the call logs. He might not have left a message, but I'm waiting to hear from Peter Lorre. Number ends in 845, I think." This, again, she does without speaking. It's nice, actually, it's like having hands in other rooms without having to get up. "You know he thinks you're my secretary?" I already told her that. Couple of times. This time, though, it's not getting a rise out of her.

It's been Moran that's wound her up. Not through any fault of his own, just from the fact that when they spoke he probably would have been round about his final fling in Milan and she's still got stitches in.

So let's try something else.

"I was thinking about what you said, about faces."

As she passes back from the office, "Nothing from the creep. And you told me. Said it didn't go anywhere."

"But I keep thinking about it. Which means there's a way and I'm just not seeing it."

"Should I make you lunch?"

What? I'm telling her she was right. More than that, I'm asking for any further ideas on the subject, and she's more than smart enough to have picked up on that. And what do I get? Offered fucking lunch, that's what I get. Where does that make sense? What planet could she be on where that would make sense? Jesus, the sooner Moran comes back the better. I know where I stand with that man. I'm not saying he's thick or anything, but if you say something to him he just replies to it. In this fashion, you can have what we call 'conversations' with Moran.

Moran never comes back with terrible, damning talk like, "What do you want me to say?"

Because I'm too tired for any shite, "Tell me about Thames Water."

The rest is thieves' cant, all about building specs and access. As soon as Dani or any of her breed start using the names of security companies it's safe to switch off. They go into reveries, like Moran relating his sporting excursion. So I look over what's been coming in from the cops. Looking, in particular, for any mention of Friday Hill.

Don't ask me why I'm taking such an interest in 'the creep' over anything else. Maybe because he didn't ask for much. He was already set to go. He knew exactly what he wanted. All he needed from me was (his words, not mine) a disposal method. He wanted to leave them (his word, not mine) sleeping, but feared interruption, premature discovery. He _loved_ the mattress idea. God dead excited about it. Now that I think about it, it's probably just his excitement. He asked me for a challenge. How can I fail to have sympathy and compassion?

Why, in his very first correspondence with me he told me in no uncertain terms how much he wanted to make an impact. Now, I ask you, if any living being should have made a project of him, with a mission statement like that, wouldn't it be me? And what's more-

…I'm sorry, I've lost that train of thought. I've come to something much more interesting.

"Dani…" But I've spoken too quietly and she doesn't come. "Fuck's sake, _Mies_!" and this time she comes running. I can do little more than stare into space, though, and she comes over, leaning in as if I'm sick. Stretches out a hand before she remembers and takes it away again.

"Jim? Jim, what's the-"

"I need a cop. Can you do that? Not a bent one either. Just a relatively clean, fairly straightforward cop. Just a fella who doesn't know what's coming to him. Or her, I don't care, but… Somebody who's in charge a bit, but not bent, I can't stress that enough. Can you do that? Name, phone number, details, family, can… can you-?" And bless her, she wrinkles her nose, looking _deeply_ offended. "With your eyes closed," I guess, "and one hand tied behind your back. Don't let him know he's in danger. Call me in to approve."


	12. Good Shirt: Sweatshirt

Jim

Moran appears at the door, at about quarter to ten. He's got his good blue shirt on and doesn't have that crowds-and-despair smell of Heathrow about him, so I'll presume he's been home in between times. And he's looking down at his phone, so I'll presume too he's had the same message I got. It says, and I quote directly –

_Between the two of you, you boys have only one vice left to indulge. GPS me and complete the set, meet your perfect cop into the bargain. – DM. P.S. Jim, you'll actually be leaving the flat so do get dressed._

"Are you terrified by that 'vice' bit like I am?" Moran says.

I am not ashamed to say, "Little bit. She's going to answerphone too."

"I got her, about an hour ago. She said something about bartering for a wetsuit."

Isn't it funny how that happens? When something _more_ terrifying suddenly enters the agenda, the rest of it doesn't seem so scary anymore. Suddenly, faced with the phrase, 'bartering for a wetsuit', I'm just _raring_ to go.

I bring up the GPS system and set it tracking from my mobile. It's a great boon, this little program. American gent knocked it up for us, patched into an Australian weather satellite, of all things. We're fucked during meteor showers, but other than that, most useful. See, much like pets, or government dossiers full of sensitive information you definitely wouldn't want anybody photocopying and then tampering with and then sending to The Guardian, my associates are at their most annoying when they take off. This way, I can keep track of them.

Mark my words, couple of years and everybody's going to have this on their phones. Crime rates will drop as people stop reporting missing phones stolen to get a crime reference number so they can claim on the insurance. They probably won't make it as sensitive as this. That could get a bit scary, if you could track _any_ phone to the building it's in.

…Must get Serge onto that, actually.

We're halfway to the ground floor when it bleeps. "Ah. Moran, you can put your Valium away."

"Not scary?"

"No, but don't let me get sat down in any poker games, alright?"

* * *

They call it The Vic, or to give it's full grand title the Grosvenor Victoria Casino. You'd know it if you saw it. Every movie made in London in the seventies had at least one scene set there. A bit old-fashioned, but a beautiful set of rooms. And very popular with the brass from the Met, and those hoping to one day become the brass. Good place to come hunting for a decent officer.

No sooner are Moran and I through the doors when my phone goes off. "Oh, would you look at that; the silent partner's decided to speak. Hello, dearest."

Danielle sings down the line at me, "I can _see_ you." And she giggles, because she can see me looking around for her too. "I'm up on the one of the crow's nests. Met a lovely gent. He brought me up here, phoned his scuba-diving niece about the loan of a wetsuit and then, it's the strangest thing, but he fell fast asleep. First floor bar, boys. Get yourselves a drink and get a glance over at the third roulette table."

"Thank you." I turn to Moran and tell him, "Put your classy face on; lager's uncouth after nine-thirty."

And in precisely the disappointed teenager voice I was trying to warn him off, "Are we not getting chips?"

"Work first, then chips."

"I'm supposed to be indulging my last vice here. We're under orders."

"What's this 'we' business? I don't take orders and you certainly don't take orders from anybody but me."

"Well, alright, it's my last vice or I disappoint my eye-in-the-sky mate, alright?"

"_Last_ vice? So it's true, you _did_ swing the lead on that job so you could slope off and… fuck it, add your own euphemism here."

"What even _is_ this work we're here for? I'm not aware of any work. It's clearly got nothing to do with me, so-"

"So why don't you go to the bar? This shouldn't take long. And then we'll get chips, and get Danielle to tell us if there's any blackjack tables that aren't being watched, alright?"

This, finally, seems to settle him a bit. Honestly, babysitting was never meant to feature in my job description. Even though there isn't really a description as such, I know that's not in it. But I suppose I shouldn't hold it against him, really. Anywhere he has to go without his gun, he's just not comfortable. I mean, he's the type, if he was here without me and my mathematical abilities, he'd stand himself at a roulette table and empty his British bank account on that most disgustingly random of games.

He'd think his chances were as good there as anywhere else and, because he'd think like that, he'd be absolutely right. That's how these places work. They depend on the fact that no human being can have perfect confidence in themselves every second of every day. If you did? Well then it might become miraculously possible for a creature with a heartbeat to beat the house.

So I wander to the edge of the bar, overlooking the gaming floor. And at the third roulette table I search myself out a Moran.

Oh, I've got him. Oh, at first glance, there he is, oh, the poor sod…

I ring up to Dani in her voyeur box. The first thing I hear is the fleshy thud of a punch and a groan. Almost hang up. "…Hello?"

"Sorry, he was coming round. Are you in position, can you see him?"

"You have selected if I'm not mistaken, out of that crowd, the prematurely grey gentleman who is trying to pass off three days stubble as an incipient beard. The one trying to impress by pretending he hasn't been up for days. With a wedding ring loosened, not because he's losing weight because he's not, but because he won't stop playing with it, in preparation for his probably imminent divorce."

God, I can _hear_ her grinning, "Do you like him, Jim?"

"I want the details of everything up to his delicate, white-haired mother typed up and on my desk, soon as."

"S'done"

* * *

Sherlock

My latest experiment in craving management has been, if nothing else, the most comfortable to date. I've turned to what might be termed indoor clothes. The theory is if I'm not dressed to go out and suffering the usual lethargy, the combination of the two will be enough to stop me going out to score. It would _seem_ to be working so far, but then I do still have this crime wave to work on. In terms of new business, it's quieted down quite a bit, but there are several things that still demand my attention.

I've got the news on, over in the corner out of my way. They've noticed the fresh calm too. They're interviewing. A saccharine, ill-trained voice (yes, I'm still stuck on Channel 5) asks the question, "So, Chief Inspector, what do you think this means?"

"Well, we're hopeful that this lull might represent the early stages of a sort-of subsidence after the sudden-" I stop listening, because he's wrong.

No, what we're in isn't the beginnings of recovery, but the breathing space. The criminal equivalent of the gravedigger or gatekeeper scene in any given Shakespeare play. In between the murder and the lies, usually. Out there somewhere there's a bit of banter going on between minor players, and a lot of people sighing, shaking the tension out of their shoulders, ready to do it all again soon enough.

Oh, and please, don't call me a pessimist. Kindly don't call me a pessimist. There's nothing personal here. I am looking at facts and providing an analysis, no more or less.

And then a knock at the door. There's no panic this time, no confusion. It's Mycroft. Has to be. I shout through, "It's not bolted." The only thing I do in preparation from him, the only move I deign to make, is to pull my hood in close around my neck. No real reason, I don't think; it's just been a long time since he could have found me in pyjama bottoms and a sweatshirt.

A cursory glance and I know I needn't have worried. Mycroft's not at his best either. What on earth's the matter with the world, that everyone I meet seems to be well on their way to rock bottom? Or has the world always been this way? Maybe when I was down there myself I couldn't get an accurate idea of the speed they were falling at. Mycroft comes in, you see, with a wet overcoat and props his dripping umbrella behind the door. He knows he's a guest, so he tries to smile and make light, but one slick, smooth little segment of hair, just from the top of his head, has slipped forward from its optimum and trained position.

The stress shows in the dry skin beneath his eyes, and the slight damage at the corner of the right eyebrow, which he scratches sometimes without being aware of it. He's had no more than five hours sleep out of the last twenty-four. And these are far from being the ordinary day-to-day trials of his secretive position; this I know because the hand that holds his briefcase is white-knuckled, and the other is in his pocket to hide the fact that it is, in fact, a fist.

So despite my prior determination not to move, I stand up and go to the corner kitchen. "I'll make coffee."

And Mycroft, as if I needed any more proof than there is something deeply amiss, says, "Don't trouble yourself."

"…I'll make coffee. There's no hook, but you can hang your coat on the standard lamp; it doesn't work anyway." From the corner of my eye I see him appraise the offending fixture before he uses it for a coat stand. There's an awful second where it looks like he might simply charge out right now and find me a new and functional one. That's what really worries me. What's made Mycroft feel useless? He's come here, whether he admits it to not, to see me and say, 'There but for the grace of-'… I can't finish that with a straight face. You get the picture. Quite apart from finding that just a tad offensive, I've always considered my brother's continuing psychological turmoil to be one of _my_ duties. About the only one I've ever enjoyed, actually, so when somebody is taking it away from me, I want to know.

Judging by how far along the kettle is, I've lasted maybe a minute and a half before I say, "Alright, so who is he?"

Well, that woke him up anyway. Standing like a shocked meerkat, "I beg your pardon?"

"Or she, but knowing what little I do about power structure of where I presume you nominally work, probably he. Whatever superior put _their_ gender-ambivalent boot on top of your head – Mirror's right behind you by the way."

"Well, you're on fine form," he mutters sullenly. Fixes his hair, then comes to sit down.

"You're not going to tell me anything, are you?"

There are constrictions on him. That's what he always used to say when he came home for a weekend or just for dinner. He could only talk about certain aspects of what he did, because there are constrictions on him. One of them is the Official Secrets Act. Tonight, if you'll pardon the slightly maudlin tone, I rather feel his own pride is what's really holding him back. He sighs and with great restraint says, "What I thought I'd do, actually, was sit here, drink this coffee and ask you what you're working on. Now that we're in touch again I wanted to… to keep the lines of communication open, as it were."

He wants to know if I have anything he can fetch back his harsher masters. If I were in a worse mood, or if he'd been several hours earlier I had only just uncurled from being a small, seed-like coil beneath my duvet in staggering pains, I would tell him so, and in as many words. But he didn't come then, he's here now. I say, "Not an awful lot. Getting another look at the hotel killer."

"I thought they got him?"

"They took a very easy, possibly framed target into custody, if that's what you mean by 'got him'." There's a low, disgusted rattle in Mycroft's throat. "Well, that's what I said, but there's no talking to these people."

"I'm sorry to hear it," he says. Really does sound sorry, too.

"Don't be. They'll know all about it when it happens again." It's only because he doesn't reply I feel the need to look up at him. Usually it's only in the face of incredible cruelty or crudeness that Mycroft can be left speechless. And yet here it is before me, large and life. When I look up he's already staring at me. "What?"

"Please," he says, "Tell me you're not serious." As if I'd say a thing like that in _jest_… these days. "This city can't manage a lunatic like that, not now, not after everything that's been happening."

I wish there was something else I could say. He's right. But I'm just looking at the facts, after all, and presenting an analysis.

* * *

[A/N - to all daily readers - Belfast is currently under more snow than the last couple of winters combined and it's still coming down. My web connection is therefore a little bit patchy. I'll do my best to keep up the pace of posting, but if i can't make it, it's only the weather to blame.]


	13. Rerun:Brand New

Sherlock

Far too accurate an analysis, it would seem.

I wake up still at the table, sore across the shoulders and neck. Grab for my phone before I realize the landline is ringing too. In the confusion, I answer both at once. "Hello?"

Lestrade in one ear, Mycroft in the other, "Sherlock, you were right."

Ah. Well, that's not a bad way to start the day, is it? "Was I?"

"It's happened again." They both said that. There's no need for me to differentiate. And Mycroft goes off on one about imperatives and the logistical, moral and infrastructural strain on the something so I hold the main phone away from me and hang on to the mobile. Lestrade's being much more interesting. "It's a real mess," he's admitting. "There's no mistaking it's the same murderer. We've had to let the other bloke go."

"Yes, well, I should think so."

Mycroft says, "Beg pardon?"

"Um… told you it was coming."

Lestrade says, "Yeah, alright, no need to rub it in."

"I'm not rubbing it in, but-"

Mycroft, confused, "I never said you were."

This is a farce, isn't it? It was alright when they were saying the same thing, that was just like getting the phone in stereo, but this is ridiculous. Let's think, how can do this without being rude… "Where?" I ask them both.

"Friday Hill."

"Right. Lestrade, I'm on my way. Mycroft… talk to Lestrade." I set the two phones down facing each other on the table and leave them to it. But by the time I've gone to get dressed I realize the one mistake I've made (forgivable, considering the circumstances) and rush back. Down both phones, "Is either of you sending a car, by any chance?" Of course now, when I need them, they've both gone. Taxi it is, then.

I hate pulling down a taxi on my own, and _not_ just because there's nobody to split the fare. It's the time it takes, sat alone in that little box. Too much thinking time, too little in the way of distraction. This morning, it would be alright, I've got something to think about, but then there's the other thing I hate and hate more, which is the fact that it would appear to be required of all London taxi drivers to take some sort of a course in persistent, pointless, utterly inoffensive chatter, which does not help.

Oh, but there's one thing I'm not sure I'll ever tire of; getting a cab to stop right at the edge of a strand of police tape. The look on the driver's face, stopping to see if I walk on through it. It's a pitiful thing to find any pleasure in a crime scene, perhaps. But the more I see of them, the more I become convinced one really is better off finding all the pitiful pleasures one can. Or else, or so runs my deep suspicion, one ends up looking like Lestrade does this morning.

Same as before. I mean, I hate to use the word _haggard_…. Then again, he's made it very clear we do not count as friends, so what's to stop me? Yes, haggard, he's haggard, and as I approach him there are a few extra factors that weren't there in Knightsbridge. "Win anything?" I call. Just to remind him that he had picked up the wrong suspect and I could tell him on a glance that he was wrong. By his reaction, I'm still right.

"What do you mean 'win'?"

"What was it, poker?" For a moment he's a little too shocked to hate me. "Pad of your right thumb. Paper cut like that's very distinctive."

So, like so many do, he tries to brush it off, "No, as it happens. I won sod all."

But by now I'm standing next to him and something catches, something that surprises me too. A scent, scent attached to a memory I can't quite get at but a scent anyway and a scent that makes me to say to him, "But that doesn't mean you didn't get lucky."

He tugs at the collar of his coat like there's something there I might see. "Can we concentrate, please?"

"What was her name?"

"Do you know the shit I could get in over bringing you here?"

"I'm very flattered. What was her name?"

He clears his throat, content to ignore me. On the far side of the tape he points out three houses; number twenty-two and twenty-six on one side of the street, and twenty-five on the other. "Three houses, same as three hotel rooms. Seems to be a pattern."

"No," I tell him. "Just a time limit. If he'd felt it was safe he would have stayed here days and cleared the street. But I take it the rest is the same? The mattresses, the poses, the delay in finding the bodies."

"No delay. In fact the last one was still cooling when we got there."

"What happened?"

"Number twenty-six," Lestrade says, and leads off, towards the last house on the left. It takes us past the door of the one house not having the traditional white gazebo put up around the door. He sees me looking. "The lady who lives there is in Hong Kong on business."

"So he does his research. Somebody will have seen him. A stranger or a strange car."

"Yeah, they're starting the door-to-doors as we speak. But it's not an overly quiet area, there's a lot of through-traffic with the schools round here. It gets in the way." A good point. I think he's glad to have made a good point, like it gives him the sensation of winning something back. Maybe takes the refreshed smell of that perfume out of his nose. Not out of mine, though. Wish I knew what it meant. Probably nothing. It could just be popular, it could just be from the street. But…

Anyway, at the last house he leads me down the side, into the garden. There, the French doors are stuck ajar. They are stuck on the thing which would have been a major tip off the moment it was spotted.

Oh, dear God, no pun intended… It's a Dalmatian. Dead, with a bloodied pit in its skull the size of my fist.

"Sherlock, meet Horace."

This doesn't make sense. If the killer's been watching he would have known there was a dog. Looking at his work to date, the caution and the _pride_… No, he wouldn't have risked it. That's when I notice that Horace is losing his hair a little bit, just on the hackle. "Do you have a magnifier?" I ask Lestrade.

"…Why would I have-?"

"Then ask that forensic to lend me his glasses."

"He's not wearing-"

"They are in his pocket, now will you just ask?" Long, frustrating story short, the glasses are provided to me and I can get a proper look. It's a tiny little patch, not distressed enough to be mange. More important than mange anyway. I know what I'm looking for. Of all people, I ought to know what I'm looking for.

The hair makes it difficult, as do the raised, empty follicles where the others have been lost, but I find it in the end. A tiny puncture mark. That's all it takes.

The killer wasn't expecting Horace because Horace has been at the vet, probably for a few days. Based on that timeframe, one might reasonably expect that he was in some considerable degree of pain. It's hard to know without giving him a better going over and I'm not sure how forensics would feel about that. So when the time came for him to go home he would have been injected with something strong to keep him going for a while. Generally some sort of corticosteroid. And the family would have been warned that it can, in rare cases, marginally increase aggression. Growling, barking, that sort of thing…

That's how I know Horace was a good boy and was only trying to protect his owners. They, however, shouted downstairs for him to shut up rather than investigate the disturbance, and so it's been left to me to scratch behind his cold, bloodied ears.

* * *

Jim

Moran is taking his shift at running the business. It's not like leaving D… that other one, in charge. With Moran, I just give the simple instruction that anything that doesn't look important ought to be dismissed, and anything that looks scary to come and get me. It's about the extent of my people management skills and so far it's doing the job. It won't be for long, at any rate. I just need to get a read at this hasty dossier on last night's lucky winner. We have his business card and everything. It's a nice touch. It's probably all I'll pass on to the end user.

But me, for my own information, I'm going to sit here and read about a wife and two teenagers, no mother, elderly, infirm father only rarely visited, etcetera, so on and how you will.

Let me explain to you how this works. If you ever meet somebody who seems warm and friendly and is a great conversationalist, if they seem interested in you, and if you find yourself talking about the aspects of your life you don't generally give much thought to, be very wary.

For instance, you say the words, 'Not as often as I'd like', and that person is likely to be hearing, 'Fear of facing up to paternal mortality – terrorizing the kids could turn this into an even more powerful factor?'

The file is five A4 pages full of similarly enlightening notes. Honestly, some people, once you get them talking? I really don't mind people who are self-obsessed, so long as they're upfront about it. But when it's just somebody suddenly realizing that they themselves are a topic for conversation, getting all flattered, oh, God, it's disgusting. Very bloody _beneficial_, yeah, but I'm glad I sent somebody else to do it.

I'm adding my own thoughts in red pen (before I have this hard copy shredded. Can't have sensitive papers lying round the flat) when there's a knock at the door. Given Moran is in charge, I don't get up. It's a small, timid knock and it has to come again before he hears it. As he passes the back of the couch, I say to him, "Don't let that _witch_ in. She's come for this-" The Thames Water memory stick with the email on it. I slide it out of my pocket and throw it to him. "-That's all she's getting."

Out of my sight, thank God, I hear him open the door and say, "Jim says just take this and go."

Beyond him, Dani laughs. Leans through and shouts to me, "It was only a bit of fun!"

"I have never been kicked out of anywhere in all my adult life." Over the back of the sofa I can just about see her, just enough to see that something's different. It's her figure, under a long, heavy jumper and straight, shapeless jeans. "Having a fat day, dear?" But Danielle lifts the hem of the jumper to show off shiny black neoprene underneath. The wetsuit. I neither understand nor pretend to nor pretend to want to. I go back to my reading. "This is full of spelling mistakes, y'know, it's a very difficult thing to get through."

"Yes, well, contrary to popular belief, I am _not_ a secretary and have no speed-typing training."

"Oh, trot along now, there's a good girl…"

It's not funny. I'm genuinely offended, so I don't know why she's laughing, because it's not funny. The sound of the door closing behind her is very nice, certainly, but it would be nicer if she'd act like she has some concept of shame. That's what it ought to be, you know, real, honest to goodness, go-to-church-and-confess-it _shame_. Danielle was the only one who could see that blackjack table on the cameras, she told me so herself. It couldn't have been the dealer who spotted me, either; I wasn't counting my own cards, but Moran's in the next seat. I was being nice, letting him win at gambling for once.

And then all of a sudden it's the tap on the shoulder and I've never been so _humiliated_ in all my days.

No, that's not true. No, what was worse was waiting outside for Moran to realize what had happened and come and join me, the daft sod. Really did think he was onto a lucky streak. He was crushed. Crushed, and that overgrown child is laughing her way out to the reservoirs thinking it was all a _great_ laugh. If I didn't have work to do, like a _mature person_, I'd be devising some equally gruesome revenge against her. But like I said, I don't have time.

I'll do that at the weekend.

See, things should have calmed down a bit by the weekend. I've let it. Stopped putting new stuff on, brought an end to some of the continuing works. I gave that bomber in Belfast up to his local constabulary. He was getting a bit big for his boots, talking about wars and revolutions and stuff. I can't afford for wars and revolutions to be kicking off right now. No, I'm going to let people relax for a couple of days, get their breath back.

And then?

Every job needs a title, a code to refer to it by. They're totally arbitrary, first word that comes into my head, usually. I'm thinking of calling this one 'Dirty Harry'. It's just a thought that makes me smile.

Not that the man detailed on these typo-ridden pages is any Harry Callahan. The word here, in bold and underlined and which I have gone on to box in in red, is 'Crutches'. Coffee gets him through the days. And for the evenings, as Dani learned when she went through his coat, there are small white pills. She's taped one to the page. I didn't recognize it but Moran says they're glucose. Says he wouldn't touch them with a lance. 'The heroin of sugar-rushes,' is how he put it, but that's unnecessarily poetic; I didn't write it down. Anyway, in addition to the everything-but-uppers approach, I'm told our target drinks too much, and as a result has lost sight of his limits, tends to drink and drink and then go from grave-side sober to trashed on a heartbeat, and that he gets really rather pleased with himself when he wins at cards.

Oh yeah, we're one iconic revolver away from a complete re-enactment… Well, at least he'll have to get off his deskbound arse for this one. Who knows, maybe he'll remember what police work is supposed to be about, give us a run for our money. I'm trying not to doubt it. I'm trying to have a little bit of faith; after all, this is _my_ plan this time.

Moran comes through with the work phone, holding it out to me. "Peter Lorre," he says, very quietly.

I nod and take it from him. "Yes?"

"Excuse me, please, but why do they call me that? It's not my name." Hm… I flip the typed notes over and scribble on the back, _contemporary. Under-educated?_

"Code-words, friend," I tell him. "We had to have something to call you."

"Oh, of course." I write down, _seeks glamour, exoticism_. Then he tells me, "In the newspapers, they have called me now the Sleeping Beauty killer."

_Vain. Non-native. Bet null and void._

"I wouldn't say that too loudly."

"Nobody can hear me here, thank you." _Over-polite, terror of some authority figure?_ "Did you see? Did you see the new work? They found them quickly because of the dog, not me."

I haven't had the news on, but he doesn't need to know that. "I saw. It was good work. Listen, I'd like to meet y-"

"Oh, no, no, please, no-" _Fear of confrontation. Recognition/anonymity – poor bastard_.

"But I have a new challenge for you." Looking down at the red ink on the page, "I think you'll like it."


	14. Right Thing:Wrong Thing

Jim

The Creep won't come out today. Says it has to be tomorrow and even that is too early. He mumbled something at me about the police and this being the day of discovery. Sounded more like superstition than any genuine concern, but maybe I'm just a hard old soul, what do you think? Anyway, he was adamant. So there's an evening meeting off the cards. I'm not sure how I feel about that. On the one that, it gives me time to think it properly through, to script it somewhat. On the other hand, I do find myself walking through to the office.

Moran doesn't notice me right away. He's firing balled-up sticky notes at various targets with a rubber band and all the determined grace I'm sure he lends to every kill. It's okay, I can wait. I don't mind what he does with his spare time. Hope he knows he's picking each and every one of those little missiles off the floor, though, that's the only thing.

Anyway, he turns in my chair to take aim at Waterloo Station on the Underground map (the wall art might as well be useful too), spots me and stops. Hides the rubber band down below the desk before he realizes I've probably been here a while.

Before he can bother with jokes or excuses, "Moran, am I doing the right thing?"

He shrugs. "Usually."

"You didn't even ask what it is I'm _doing_."

"That's why I said 'usually' rather than yes or no." Either because he's seen I'm sympathetic to the endeavour, or because we're getting dangerously close to discussing things where he feels he's out of his depth, the rubber band comes back out. Waterloo goes down. "Pick a station."

"…Upminster." He doesn't fire right away. He stops to eye me. "End of the line after Barking," I explain. "Which may well be where I am."

"Yeah. Long time since." Fuck's sake, this is useless. No straight answer either way means all I'm doing is overthinking it, putting myself off, getting pissed off. I turn away from him and head in the direction of coffee, but then again, I don't have a coffee maker, do I? Or there's no pot in it anyway. Behind me in the office, there's this little hiss of victory, of joy, as in that basket case's head the whole station at Upminster disappears in one incredible blast.

It's not his fault. From Moran, 'Usually' will have to be good enough. In fact, it more than is. There's trust and understanding on that. He trusts my judgement, and doesn't feel the need to submit it to constant questioning under hot lights.

Yeah. Fine. 'Usually' can be enough for me. Especially when it's so accurate. Actually, that's a good idea, that's a better question to ask him; this one has a more solid, concrete answer, requires no explanation. "Put it this way, when was the last time I was doing the wrong thing?"

Mimicking my accent, "Oh, no, angel, you'll hardly need your gun with you on a standard bit of-"

"Yeah, alright but-… Wait, is that what you actually think I sound like?"

"That _is_ what you sound like. I do the official best impression of you."

Later, when there's time for a whole other chat about this, I'll ask who else was in whatever contest made him _official_. Now, though, "But before that?"

Another shrug, "Not since I've known you, anyway." Nostalgia, business analysis, opinions, none of these is really his strong point. It's not fair to put this on him. He knows that, and resolutely balls up another notelet as if _he_ wants to remind _me_ of his place. "Pick another station."

I pass him first, so I can get a decent look at the map, pick him out a challenge. He'll want one which is in close proximity to another, so the shot has to be accurate and flawless. Sitting on the edge of the desk I tell him, "Baker Street. And may God have mercy on your soul if you so much as graze St John's Wood, Sebastian. That's more than you're worth to me, do you understand?"

It's not a joke; he doesn't laugh and he doesn't question it. Just gets a good look at his target, adjusts his position. He leans out of the chair, standing forward with his elbows on the desk.

"You look like a snooker player."

"Hush, mate."

"You're sticking your tongue out the corner of your mouth. Do you stick your tongue out when you're shooting people?"

"Yes."

"Ever bite your tongue on the recoil?"

"Nearly every time, now will you shut the fuck up, please?"

Well, certainly, if he's going to be like that… But I can still watch. You should really see how seriously he's taking this. He has different sizes of elastic band, presumably for different distances or accuracy, that sort of thing? He selects the right one with caution, and does not proceed until it's in the right position on his thumb and forefinger. The notelet gets rolled under his palm until it's as close to round as paper can get, so there'll be no surprises in its trajectory. Then and only then does he even try to take aim.

There's a large, cackling part of my brain crying out, "Oh, please," when after all this is just a game. But then there's the rest of me, and that's what keeps me from jogging his elbow or saying anything else to put him off. Because I look at this and it's really good to know. Good to know he puts this much effort into things. Danielle's out there somewhere wearing a wetsuit and sneaking into a government facility on the same day as having stitches removed from her side and having written a report for me on a cop we picked yesterday. Seriously. And they are just the tip of the iceberg. There are so many. Maybe they ask for more and need more given to them, but they're still there and one way or another they're all still mine. I held this shite little island to _ransom_ and…

Right thing? Yeah. Fucking usually…

* * *

Sherlock

Lestrade and I went house to house just behind the forensics team. Then, just like the hotel, we end up outside smoking, this time leaning on the hood of his car. Bagged evidence is occasionally carried past us to a transit van full of coolers, but for the most part we're free to talk. Not that we have, yet. Neither of us. Something about going from corpse to corpse for a long few hours, maybe. Anyway, I'm damned if I'm going to be the one to strike up conversation.

Eventually, after the first cigarette and the longest wait, Lestrade says, "Any ideas?"

"All the same ones as last time. Not that you were paying all that much attention, I suppose."

He takes that one on the chin, "I promise to listen this time. Until scenes-of-crime clear it down and we start getting results from the lab, other people's ideas are about all I have to go on. It's all getting a bit big to wait, wouldn't you say?"

So I begin to tell him my ideas. "The killer is artistic, but lacks creative impulse; hence he creates the same image, of the peaceful sleeper, over and over again. I wouldn't look for anybody in a creative profession. More likely a labourer of some sort, somebody used to repetitive and strenuous physical work. He's completely devoted to these murders. Anything else he does in his life is only to facilitate them; even covering them up is secondary to being able to continue. They're huge crimes, mass murder at both scenes. Daring, bold. He probably started with something smaller and was never caught. Now he wants to make an impression, bigger the better. He wants to be noticed. But the scale of the attempt is too big. He's burning out. Probably knows it. That's why he's so indiscriminate. The victims are immaterial –

"I can't believe you just said that."

That wasn't Lestrade. I could take that sort of interruption from Lestrade, I could ignore it if it had come from Lestrade, but it didn't. He hasn't opened his mouth. He's looking round, same as I am, at the constable who spoke. She's a fledgling, by the looks of things; not just her unlined face or the naïve nature of what she felt the need to say and the way she said it, but from the fact that she's been given the job of carrying bag after bag of probably useless gatherings to the van.

But my _God_ she means it. Square, set jaw, hard eyes. Really glaring at me. "Excuse me?" I say.

"It's bloody typical. Bloody analysts-"

Me, to Lestrade, "Oh, so that's what you said I am."

But she's not finished yet, and is determined to get there, "-They don't matter to you, do they? You love a good killer, oh yeah, but nobody ever remembers the victim's names. You're all the same. You're ghouls."

"And you're just pissed off about carrying the bags," I tell her. It's perfectly true, but she tenses like she might leap forth and tear out my throat, bags or no bags.

Lestrade reaches across, trying to guide her away. He's saying, "All due respect, Sally, but-" She eyes his outstretched hand in a way that makes him retract it.

Past him, I explain to her, as if she deserves an explanation; "I was talking about the probable suspect. In serial cases like this, there's generally some sort of connection between the victims. Prostitutes, students, fat people, perceived deviants… Doesn't really matter; whatever you are, somebody wants to kill you. Police officers, I hear, are a common fantasy, though rarer in practice. By 'immaterial' I meant that this killer has no such pretentions. It's the kill, and the circumstances of it, that matter to him. In fact, so far he seems _determined_ to be arbitrary. Forgive the contradiction in terms, but-"

She's not listening to me anymore. She looks from me to Lestrade, and past my own voice I watch her lips form the word and question, "_Serial?_"

Him, stern and final, "Move along, Sally." She goes, but only warily, and looking over her shoulder at me. Lestrade's gaze is just as persistent, though with a good deal more anger in it.

"What? Oh, look, I'm sorry if I put my foot in my mouth, but it's obvious, isn't it? This isn't going to stop after two incidents. He'll be planning his next one already." Lestrade groans like he just doesn't want to hear this. I understand but… No, I don't. I don't . He asked for my ideas and here they are. Anyway, this time I'm only telling him what he already knows.

"Oh. You meant any ideas on how to _stop_ it."

"In an ideal world, Sherlock."

"I told you, he's burning out. The only thing he wants more than recognition is to be able to continue forever. But nobody can have both. Either you get very smart and very lucky with this one or… Or you have to wait for the mistake."

"That's _first _-year stuff," he spits, really very disappointed in me. "Everybody knows that much."

"What did you expect? I mean, who do you think I am? I don't know whether to be flattered or disgusted. Nobody's going to hand this to you. It's one of those things that's just going to take thought and graft and you could very well get him before any more people die, but without that-"

He cuts in, "Oh, no. No. No, don't _you_ lecture _me_ on having things handed to you. No, not you; what have you _ever_ had to work and scrape for?"

Well, six days clean, but that's none of his business. I wasn't lecturing. I _was_, actually, about to offer my assistance in analysing any of those results, the ones he's apparently happy to wait on while the killer watches TV news from outside these houses and some other dogsbody like Sally phones the next of kin for a single, Dalmatian-owning mother and her teenage son, three house-sharing young professionals and an elderly lady. And if that sounds self-righteous then fine, because it is word-by-word correct.

Another day, I would have walked from him by now.

* * *

[Apologies for the delay, but forty-three hours at home with my family with no internet or digital TV service and patchy electricity, I'm really just happy I made it through.]


	15. Morning People:Not Morning People

Sherlock

Three brown hairs are all it takes to keep me awake at night.

Don't get me wrong; insomnia is something I've been putting up with since childhood. I lie down in the dark and the silence and try to rest, _want_ to rest. Then, utterly unbidden, whether there's anything to think about or not, my mind kicks into gear, accelerates to maximum velocity and will not stop. I've found there's very little you might even put in its way. It'll go through a flock of sheep in much the same away a combine harvester would. In fact, the only consistently effective cure I've ever known was…

But I'm not letting it in. Not even the word and especially not in the darkest hours of the night.

Actually, the thought of another sort of insomnia, of nights spent rolling in clammy sheets and unable to think coherently for a minute at a time, that helps to hold that other word at bay.

Tonight's sleeplessness is different. It's not a simple case of a brain perpetually hurtling into nothing, and it's not sick. Tonight, all it takes are three brown hairs.

One for each hotel room. Missed in the initial searches because, and I believe I quote, it wasn't a murder investigation yet. Three brown hairs which tied the scenes to a man who worked in the hotel and, aside from a few _basic_ facts, could have been responsible. It wasn't a terribly clever frame-up… But it worked. When you think about it, you have to admit that it worked.

So why strike again? Why set that up only to give it all back?

It crossed my mind, of course, that having performed once the killer couldn't resist another round. The more I think about that the less sense it makes. He never intended to quit. Stopping will never have so much as entered this man's mind.

But what does that leave? What other cause to leave three brown hairs on three tousled pillows? And what should we have expected to find on the three new scenes?

And in this fashion, three brown hairs are keeping me awake.

* * *

Jim

God help me, I will never understand morning people. The Creep is a morning person. It's not so bad from him; he's a mental case, so removed from the normal, everyday run of things I wouldn't be shocked if he celebrated Unbirthdays. But any so-called 'normal' person who will wilfully get up before the sun, I want nothing to do with.

It's only in a very slow and yawning way I creep out of bed and stop hitting snooze. Can't be late. Wouldn't look professional, would it? You see, considering what I've got planned for my Peter-Lorre-voiced friend, I felt like I owed him some small concession. He wanted to meet in the morning and here I am, shivering my way to the shower. Mornings are cold. Just for any bloody morning people out there, here's an argument for you; mornings are so fecking cold. It's the spring, yeah, but this is England.

Y'know, since this whole business with the client base started, I've never met a single one of them face-to-face. It seemed so much safer and, really, there's never been any need; you can send an eighteen page instruction manual for early inheritance in the _post_. Even on the highly unlikely chance somebody finds it, they'll think it's a joke. And if they don't, it's hardly proof of conspiracy, nobody will have acted on it yet and it's illegal to read somebody else's post. So no, I've never actually gone out in the world and looked one of them in the eye. Much less a lunatic murderer with the same approach to his hobby as those who run fifty mile marathons.

Much less a lunatic murderer I'm supposed to be meeting at six thirty on Primrose Hi-oh God, I'm going to die, aren't I? Jesus Christ… And round there there's even bound to be a mattress abandoned in the bushes somewhere. Stitch me into my own genius idea, oh dear sweet Jesus, I'm going to die… I'll die before I even get there, because now I have to call Moran and try and get him up too.

Maybe if I just baffle him with orders he won't have time to think of killing me. So when he answers, on the tenth ring, I say quickly, "Moran, just get a gun, put a big coat on and try and look like a trained killer. Meet me on Primrose Hill, soon as."

"Wh-?" But I cut him off there.

A couple of minutes later, on my way out the door, this tremor runs through me like I don't want to go after all, it's alright, we'll be fine… Call him back.

"Yes, James, and good morning to you too…"

"But you are coming, aren't you? You didn't just roll over."

"No. I didn't just roll over."

* * *

Sherlock

By the time I finally give up the ghost, it's morning anyway. I really should make an effort to see more mornings, you know. There's something very hopeful about them. When you're falling, travelling in the other direction, every morning is just another hill you can't be bothered climbing anymore. That's why I sleep through them, why I'm trained that way. That and the fact that there's no alarm clock in the world can wake you out of the sort of stupors I used to put myself in, not until I was good and done with it anyway. But now, or this morning anyway, despite the exhaustion… I look out the bedroom window for a moment thinking to myself, there's a serial killer out there. And just because I haven't figured it out yet doesn't mean I'm not going to. Obviously the police will see it as their job but, well, that's precisely the problem. It's a job to them, most of them. In an ideal world, Lestrade's efficiency would not necessarily crush out the hope, the sense of vocation, I felt from the young officer yesterday. Sally , didn't he say her name was?

What I mean is, the police might not be the best equipped force for actually solving crimes. A very effective means of enforcement and of meting out justice but when it comes to the actual investigation… It's become a job to so many of them.

And yet (and this is what I meant about mornings being hopeful), when I leave the bedroom the first thing that catches my eye, back in the dim of the windowless corner kitchen, is a little pulse of light that means I have a message on my phone and have had for some time.

Two facts become apparent very quickly. Firstly the message came in at around four-thirty. Secondly it's from Lestrade.

It says, _what about the hairs though?_

There's a heart in him. I knew that and never doubted it. We met last year and I came very quickly to know he had some semblance of a brain, and a very definite heart. That's why it's been so disappointing to see him changed, to see all that gone out of him.

I text back, _I know. Can we meet?_

But nothing comes back. At first it's just not right away. Maybe he had better luck than me and fell asleep in the end. Maybe he's getting ready for another long day's work, or still having trouble dragging himself out of bed, or having trouble dragging his son out of bed for college. Maybe he's lying next to a more attractive prospect, as far as breakfast companions go, smelling of perfume again, committing the copper's cardinal sin of silencing his phone.

I get dressed, make coffee, finish it, light a cigarette. Still nothing. Finish the cigarette. And then my foot starts tapping, and gets too fast for its own rhythm, becomes jittery and erratic.

Thinking to myself, three brown hairs. Three brown hairs that make no sense, but my brain has lost those firm moorings and in the quiet, tired morning is starting to pick up speed again, with a counter firing up and up as it ticks off every tap of my foot and the corner of my eye trying to trace the lightning-like cracks in the ceiling plaster and a very familiar and most unwelcome instinct wanting desperately to count the floorboards between me and some arbitrary point like the back of the sofa, and paining me for every moment that instinct is denied and it hurts again, everything hurts again. Trying to think about nothing more than the three brown hairs, but I've let go of it now and it's gone. Spent too long thinking it over and not getting anywhere. It's not enough to go on, alone, it needs some point of comparison, probably from yesterday's crime scenes, but I need Lestrade for that and Lestrade hasn't text me back and I wish he would, I hope he does, I wish he would, because I know this feeling and I know exactly where I'm going to end up and how soon and what it'll feel like and how long that's going to bloody last and what'll happen when it's over and I know, and I know, and I've known it all before.

As calm and stoic as I know how to be in this state, I go to the low bookshelves under the next window, and out of the phonebook I take the strangest thing I've ever found useful. It's the little card Mycroft left, the one that came in the violin case. The instrument itself has been placed carefully in the very farthest corner of the deepest darkest cupboard (turned out to be the one under the sink), but the card… I kept that. Keep that in the phonebook. So it'll always be there and not get damaged or lost.

It works better than methadone. I don't know why. Just that one note he left me, a time and a place and an invitation which had already accepted to be declined. But it works. At first I can hardly make the letters stand still to read it, but I can force that. I can force that, and those words anchor me. Meaningless, trivial words. No, not meaningless. Trivial was correct, but not meaningless. Not when they can weigh me back down, bring my feet back to earth. And even when the card is read and read again and more than read, I still sit there holding it, looking without seeing. Until the phone rings or until it stops working, whichever comes first.

* * *

Jim

Where I'm standing, later in the day when sunlight has had a chance to warm the mist off, there'll be an iconic view of London. Right now, there's not. Right now there's mist, and though Moran assured me he'd keep me in sight, I can't see him. Not that I need to, not that I don't trust him, not that I can't handle myself if it comes down to it. I'd just… _like to know_, alright?

Anyway, despite snoozing and having to rouse a sleeping hitman for company, I ended up early. In terms of the professionalism, the theatre of the moment, it works out quite well. I am easily defensible here at the top of the hill, and whatever direction you come at me, I'm probably cutting a decent silhouette in the veiled morning. In terms of giving me too long to stand around thinking about who might be coming to see me, it was a very bad idea.

There's a jogger on one of the paths far below me, just a dark blur with reflective stripes on his or her top. There's a woman in a long coat and a stupid hat walking an equally stupid-looking dog. But other than that, nothing.

Then he appears. Or I think he does, anyway. He's a blur at first. And then starts to resolve and Lord God, but he's a big fella. Heavy set. Shoulders as broad as two of me laid side-by-side. But from the shoulders he goes down in a triangle, to two ridiculously dainty feet that bring him steadily along the tarmac in a little sort of trot, like Frankenstein's monster trying out ballet. Wearing the kind of anorak and the kind of scarf your Ma might send you at Christmas, with his hands stuffed down in the pockets. And now, as he gets closer, I realize it's not the mist that kept his features undefined; he just looks that way. Big, doughy, baby-face…

Part of me wants to walk on whistling like I'm just out taking the air of a morning and nothing to do with him and leave him to wait for a totally different Mr Moriarty. But I suppose I've been looking at him too long to pull that now. He walks right up and says good morning. Me answering him is probably all the moment of recognition he needs. He says it might be best if we kept walking.

Not that I'm inclined to give in to every petty request, but that shape, that face… that _voice_ coming out of it, good God… I just don't want to give him any excuse to argue with me. And may Sebastian Moran be skinned alive if he isn't stalking my every step like… like… I'm sorry, you'll have to think of something yourself. I'm walking alongside a serial killer and having to sternly remind myself not to call him the Creep to his face.

"I'm very grateful," he begins, "for your kind assistance so far."

"I'm glad to hear that," I tell him. "And for what it's worth, you've been very impressive." It's worth a lot, apparently; he lights up, from the inside, glowing the way you'd expect a saint to glow. Excitable as a child he asks if I really mean it and that I'm not lying and how happy he is to hear it. And, though naturally the flesh of my back is trying to cree-_crawl_, up over my shoulders, this is all good news for me, really. "I don't think you'll mind doing what I want to ask for you," I tell him, as soon as the dry, closed-over feeling in my throat can be swallowed down (he is a good eight inches taller than me. I'm not intimidated, I'm just saying).

We walk on while I explain it to him. At first he's a little reticent. That's understandable. It's never easy, coming out of where you're comfortable, opening yourself up. He'll turn himself into a target, doing this. But you don't have to pay him much attention to know he's not going to be the next Bundy. Prolific, god yeah, but he doesn't have that longevity, that restraint. I see, and he comes very quickly to see, that my way is good for him. It doesn't take him long to agree.

I hand over Dirty Harry's business card. Cheap, thin cardboard. Every cop has hundreds, for handing out to witnesses and victims and the like. Could have found it anywhere. But he holds it, my Creepy man-child friend, like gold dust, and places it very carefully in a very secure inner pocket of his red, padded anorak. To me, that's a good sign.

"This is…" he begins, and doesn't know how to finish it. "Strange," comes eventually. Then, "Good."

Maybe. Time will tell.

For now, we've come to the end of the path. The Creep claps me on the shoulder, like a friend – me trying desperately not to stumble under the weight of it, not at this stage – and says, "I must go now. Catch my bus. I am opening the restaurant today."

So that's why we're so early. But purely out of morbid curiosity, to see where I can send people that they might be served by murderous hands I have to ask, "Where do you work?"

With another swell of untempered pride, he removes from inside the coat a baseball cap, bearing the trademark of his exceedingly popular place of work. A sandwich chain. They're not paying me to advertise but if it had sprung up in London rather than New York, we would have had sandwich shops called Underground, does that help you?

He goes away, still with his excellent and most heartfelt grin on his face.

Out of mist or trees or whatever was hiding him, Moran appears next to me. Probably his greatest trick is that he doesn't spook me at all, just falls naturally into place, like a shadow, as we watch him go.

"Do you think he's going to turn around now?" I ask him after a while.

"No. Why?" But the second I heard the _N_ leave his mouth I was showing him why; stopped fighting the urge and started trying to bat the shoulder of my coat clean of that hand, the flesh below of the pressure of it, the heat. It's not working. Really have to get my arse in gear and find a new dry cleaner…


	16. Muddy: Clear

[A Brief A/N Of Recommendation and Appreciation Before I Begin – Ladies and gents, there is a very talented and flattering young cartoonist on deviantart who has decided to grace this story with illustrations By. The. Chapter. This artiste goes by the username butteronmycuffs and so far the art ranges from a convincingly-stoned Sherlock and Ruby discussing the semantics of bumming a fag, to… I'll let you discover, but it's cute, and it's wrapped in a duvet, and its eyes want all living things to burn. Please check it out (and major thanks to said-talentpot for the support.)]

* * *

Jim

Moran was the one that realized we were only fifteen minutes from Danielle's place, and that with Thames Water on last night there was no way she could have copped off. Probably. Hopefully. That was decision made. She's one of those mad morning people I was talking about. The thought, initially, was that there was bound to be breakfast over here, even at this ungodly hour. But now we're standing at the door I'm getting the feeling we might not be getting fed.

All around our feet, like a welcome mat, are spatters of dark, foul smelling water, just starting to dry up and leave brown tidemarks at its edges. There's a smear of the same stuff on the door, by the keyplate; it's the mark of a steadying hand, when the other was shaking, when the key didn't quite seem to fit. And there's another smell, even stronger and stranger, out of place at seven in the morning. I mean, I could be wrong but… But it smells like tomato soup, full of hot pepper. So rather than knock, I go for the spare key. She keeps it duct-taped to the underside of the windowsill at the end of the hall.

But then I give it to Moran, and Moran can go first. He sighs at me, but I could not possibly care less. He lets himself in and creeps around the door calling, "Dani? Dani, pet, s'only us." No, I'm sorry, but it's definitely tomato soup. There's not even a coffee smell anywhere, it's just tomato soup. Moran is still ahead, looking around for her, so he's the one who trips first. We both look down at once and see the muddy wetsuit abandoned in the middle of the floor. Moran looks back up, slowly, "Danielle?"

Then there's a sneeze from round the corner, and she comes shuffling out of the bathroom, shivering in leg warmers and sweater and wrapped in a parka, Fame-meets-Trainspotting, looking dead and pointing at me; "I swear to God. I swear to _God_, James Moriarty, if the Toxic Water Scandal doesn't open this country down the centre like a stomped-on fly, you're paying me damages." Stumbling on her blanket, she passes us waves dizzily round the breakfast bar, and starts pouring the boiling soup off the stove into a mug and directly down her throat still steaming.

And Moran and me just sort of look at each other and think, _Shit_, because we passed six or seven nice places for breakfast on the way here…

"I'm not sure it's not toxic actually," Danielle growls, hoarse. Then tells the story. I'll spare you her colourful technique of telling it, but in short, the break-in and the release of the doctored email went fine, as did even her escape back into the reservoir. But as she swam back to her clothes there was a German shepherd sniffing at them, and apparently the night patrols round there look for that, because they love nothing more than apprehending a midnight skinny-dipper. All of this Dani heard while she was pressed in against the bank at their feet, trying not to breathe too loudly, for the better part of an hour until they stopped watching for her. The wetsuit only did so much in the first place, and then when they got bored waiting they kicked her clothes over into the water. A long way home drenched. Hence the soup, and all the sneezing, which I don't really want to be around, thanks…

I'm actually about to make my excuses and get off in search of poached eggs, but then she hits on the obvious question; "What are you two doing here anyway, at this time?"

Um, well… funny story, true story…

Moran says, "Went to meet Peter Lorre."

Incipient hypothermia is utterly forgotten. Like a teenager, gossiping, "So what's he like then?"

Moran considers very carefully. Getting his thoughts together. In the pause, I could almost swear Dani cuts her bleary eyes over at me but maybe she's just having trouble keeping them focussed. They could just be following sound, because they go back to Moran when he speaks, "Like if the blonde one off The League of Gentleman was the Hulk, and worked in Subway."

"You're _kidding_… And," looking to me, "What was all this in aid of?"

I'm glad she wasn't around last night. I've got a feeling she's going to try and talk me out of this even now that it's done and in motion and can't be stopped. Not knowing what else to tell her I say, "Scorpio."

"Scorpio as in fits between Libra and Sagittarius? Or Scorpio as in shot lots of people in San Francisco, don't pass out on me now, cop, didn't feel so lucky sort of Scorpio?"

"The latter." Oh, here it comes, all the arguments and recriminations and the probably-actually-very-good points that won't make any difference except they'll annoy me, everything that would have made me not go this morning. She's a bitch, y'know, she just likes making my life more difficult than it needs to be. But Dani just nods. Gets up, opens another tin of soup and dumps it into the still-smoking pot, takes the lid off the pepper and just slugs it in. "What? No witty put-down, no devil's advocate? You're not going to pull me up on this and argue with me and say it was a stupid thing to do?" She bundles the blanket up tighter around her neck and face, burying her streaming nose for a disgusting second, shakes her head. "Why not? You don't think it's a good idea, do you?" Danielle laughs, and after a second Moran joins in. They're both looking at me. "What?"

"Do _you_ think it's a good idea?" Moran grins. "'Cause from the way you're talking about it…"

"Don't be soft; I wouldn't have done it if I didn't think-"

"Then what difference does it make?" Danielle adds. And she's right, too, y'know. It wouldn't. I mean, the thing is done, as I said. None of it would make any difference. So let them laugh, I suppose. In an ideal world where I'm perfectly comfortable I'd be able to join in with them. But it's all… how did my new friend put it? Strange but good. It's just new territory. I'll be fine.

I tell Danielle, "I'm sorry I wouldn't let you in yesterday."

She _tries_, "I'm sorry I got you thrown out of the casino." But her eyes show, and down inside her blanket her shoulders are shaking with the effort of keeping her giggling quiet. Sorry, my arse. Not for a bloody second…

* * *

Sherlock

Lestrade texted back before silence and craving got the better of me. Happy for me? Or are you disappointed? Maybe it's just the mood I'm in but I can't help but feel I might be more interesting to the average, everyday man-on-the-street when I'm failing. We love weakness because it makes us feel strong. _There but for the grace of God go I_. Can't get that phrase out of my head, lately, but it's because I see it everywhere. Now that I can, most days, go out among the public without being the object of the platitude, I see it. Everybody who's ever bought a Big Issue, I see it on your faces. Whether you know it or not, whatever interchangeable deity you plug the gap with, that's why you do it, what you're thinking. There but for the grace of whatever…

You know, I _was_ going to say it's a very human thing to do, but it probably has more to do with some deeper, evolutionary memory, left over from being animals. The weak are doomed and will fall away, leaving more room and resources for the strong. That's very probably where that instinctual schadenfreude has its source.

I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive me. Too long waiting, too long tapping my foot; I'm probably not on the very best of form just now. And I'm wary too of saying it's all about to get better, because I remember quite distinctly the last time I met Lestrade at his place of work, and what sort of conversation that turned into. So I'll keep my hopes small and private for now, just enough to keep me straight and sane on the way over there.

He hasn't come down to meet me this time, but is expecting me. I'm given directions at the front desk and make my own notes on the way up. Lestrade probably hasn't realized the trust involved in letting me learn my way around New Scotland Yard. Whether he ever comes to regret that is entirely up to him. But I note the signs, both the ones on the walls and the less physical ones, that lead to Forensics, and Photography, and all other on-site operations. Of course most the analysis and laboratory work is farmed out, but it all ends up back here eventually. There are some things in this life which are just good to know.

Today, though, I go straight to him, more or less. It's only fair I give him a chance.

His office is on the far side of a room full of desks, all stacked high, most of them messy. Only one or two are occupied at this time of the morning. In a far corner, the young office, Sally, is arguing with someone about the speed of results coming in. She looks like she hasn't slept since we last met. Another good sign. Some part of me hopes it never gets beaten out of her. For the most part I know she hasn't a chance.

Lestrade is on the far side of glass which is frosted to chest height, and steamed up above it from the coffee pot. I knock as I open the door and see he's already got two mugs set out. Which is nice of him, but he's also holding his head at a strange angle, and is slightly slumped from below the waist. I look around the office. His coat is on the back of his chair, which would be fair enough if there wasn't a hook for that on the back of the door, if the bottom wasn't doubled up over the top to make the layer thicker.

"You slept here. What happened?"

"Too much on," he says. "Grabbed an hour, that's all." No. No way he'd develop that loud a crackle in his vertebrae in a grabbed hour. Waiting for the coffee to boil he gets distracted by something on his left hand, rubs at it like a spot of grease that won't shift. When he turns round I see it's his wedding ring and, well, enough said. I won't push him, not this early in the morning. "So," he goes on, naturally changing the subject, "you got stuck on the same thing I did?"

"Can I see the crime scene photographs from yesterday?"

"I'll take that as a 'Yes, but don't rub it in'." He takes pleasure in that. What have I ever done to him that he gets to take pleasure in that? When I don't respond, he softens, "Soon as they get back."

"You mean you haven't got them yet?"

"Listen, let me tell you something about how the police service works, Sherlock-"

"Out the front door, turn left, five minutes down Broadway to Victoria Street, turn right, another couple of minutes' walk and it's on your right, opposite Sainsbury's. I saw it in the cab on the way over."

"Saw what?"

"Boots the bloody Chemist; could have had them back in an hour."

He's giving me that look like I'm not funny. Which is good, because I'm not trying to be. That must come across in my expression because he moves on, "They'll be here this morning. What do you think you're going to see, though, that's the real question here.

True. And a harder one to answer, at that. But there isn't a doubt in my mind that something will connect them, some factor like that hair in every unmade bed and… "The beds. The beds, _God_, Lestrade, it was right there. Staring us in the face. The hotel didn't touch the beds, firstly to preserve the evidence in case it turned into a crime scene, every London hotel knows that much. After that, I presume whether you intended to investigate or not you told them there was something ongoing, am I right? So the rooms were never cleaned, never made up. Those beds were in exactly the same state they were left in on the night of the murders." He has this set of photographs. He has to do a bit of desk reshuffling to free them, but he gets there in the end. I put them in front of him, one of every room before the mattress were picked up and taken apart – Christ, as if that shouldn't have given it away from the very first _second_ – and show him. The businessman's pillow pulled down sideways, as though he held it against him in the night. Everything in the honeymoon suite pulled towards the centre. The little girl's blanket kicked off to the floor.

"So the killer left it like they'd just got up and vanished. If it wasn't part of the cover-up it was part of whatever… whatever _picture _he was putting together."

"The latter," I tell him. "The stitches were on the underside of the mattresses. The bedding was made to look slept in again once it was put back on."


	17. Contact: Quiet

Sherlock

"Okay," says Lestrade, "So that's something we should have noticed. But what does it actually tell us, hm?" Three brown hairs and tousled bedding. The answer is there, and I can see it, and if he'd just shut up for a second- "Nothing, when you think about it. It's just another detail for when we talk about how elaborate he makes it."

"But that's _it_. The sheer lengths he goes to, there's no way this one thing can be incidental."

"Well? Come on, then. I'm waiting for brilliance, here." I wish he'd take that tone out of his voice. We're all half-slept and under pressure. There's no need to start tearing lumps out of each other. Trying to blot him out, trying to think it over. There's an answer, but nothing's working, nothing's making it real.

The other officer knocks the door. "Come in," he calls, "Yes, Sally?"

"Sir, it's Forensics. I can't even get sense out of them anymore. The phone's lying of there and I think he's still talking-"

Lestrade holds out a hand to quiet her, starts to get up. Muttering, "Ghoulish bloody wankers…" He eyes me on his way past but other than that seems content to leave me here. His subordinate lingers a little longer in the doorway. It's probably a few second too long before I turn to look at her.

"Do… do you remember-?" she starts, when I don't speak. I nod and she stops. "I think we-" And another pause, this time because Lestrade has suddenly cried out for Christ across the room. She leans back, checks there's nothing urgent, and looks back to me. Forensics, it seems, are a frustrating department to work with. "I think we got off on the wrong foot."

She's young to have found herself a detective. Not far beyond twenty-five, at a guess. A slope in her stance that speaks of dogsbody status. Nails painted, but bitten down to stumps that speak of taking it hard. "Not really. You misheard. No harm done." Jeans and blouse are boxy, shapeless; compensating for femininity in a predominantly masculine workplace. Her cuffs are still buttoned. Hard work and stress and her cuffs are still buttoned. I don't know what it means yet, but I respect it.

She approaches, sticks out a hand to be shaken. Says her name is Sally Donovan, but I already knew that, from Lestrade and from the swipe-card clipped to her front pocket. What's new and interesting is where that cuff pulls back and the skin on the back of her left wrist is more pink than brown, shiny, a little twisted. A burn. Gained in adult life, seeing there's no stretching or sign of any skin grafts. A burn. Just the edge of one, and perhaps it doesn't extend very far but then again, her cuffs are buttoned. So I introduce myself in return. But I suppose I mustn't lift my eyes; she takes her hand back, self-conscious.

I look past her, checking there's no one nearby. Then tell her, "Between you and me, there are good scars and bad. The good kind show that you came through something painful intact and they shouldn't be hidden." I know this because I have several of the other. I tell her this because… Because when it's told and over with she doesn't immediately snap at me to mind my own business and I knew that would happen.

Out across the office, Lestrade is starting in, "Listen to me, you grave-robbing piece of-… Hello?"

"I think I'd better go and help him," Sally says, and goes about it. Leaves me where it's quiet again, leaves me to thinking about sheets and hair and skin and all the little things a body sheds and… and that's it. I shout for Lestrade, but he's busy trying to get the reticent laboratory back on the phone. I'm about to go and get him when another phone rings.

It's in this room. The longer it rings, it's in Lestrade's coat, outside left pocket.

Lestrade's busy, like I said. Could be important. Could be to do with the case, maybe even the photographs, which I really do need to see. More so now than ever, now that I know what I'm looking for. And there could be no harm, so long as a thing is tastefully and thoughtfully done and I don't go yelling and calling anybody names. I've learned that from watching him.

So, yes, I fish it out, on its ninth or tenth ring now, and answer, "D.I. Lestrade's phone?"

"Then you are not him." Voice is thick, a little guttural. Scandinavian, maybe. English is learned, impeccable really. Too good to be newly arrived in the country, and too good to belong to an intelligent person who would have made it more colloquial by now.

"No."

"You are his friend?"

Interesting question, but I don't feel like I should be discussing semantics right now. "Yes."

"Good. You will do." Funny enough, I'm not sure I want to. This isn't a photo printer I'm speaking to. This isn't a professional. It isn't even anybody who knows Lestrade. "I want you to ask him what he thinks of my work, please. Yes?"

At this I get up and walk out across the office. Lestrade has his back to me. Tapping his first two fingers on the desk, holding the phone to his shoulder while he makes notes and mumbles a string of curses that doesn't even seem to allow him to draw breath. "And what work would that be?" I'm saying, at the same time as I'm tapping his shoulder. He won't turn. Waves me off. Sally is standing on the other side of him. Maybe it's his phone in my hand that worries her. Maybe something else. I tap again and he won't turn.

On the other end of the phone the unknown voice is saying, "He will know when you ask him the question."

"I'm not sure he will. You see, he's got an awful lot of cases on at the moment and I'm afraid one rather blurs into the next, so if you could just let me know who I'm speaking to?" If I'm right, what I've just said will deeply offend this voice, which, if I'm right, belongs to the last person in the world anyone sane would want to offend right now, but I'm stalling. Stalling for just long enough to grab a marker from a holder on the desk and on the nearest piece of paper scrawl the words 'Serial killer'.

Lestrade won't turn, so I hold it round in front of his face from behind.

And then he turns. Stares wide-eyed. This time it's definitely the phone which is the shock.

And the voice on the line is cool and assured and says, "He will know."

* * *

Jim

So, this might come across as an odd question, but do you ever get the feeling there's things going on that you're not being made fully aware of? It's that feeling, when you walk into a room and people go quiet. Either you're being really bloody stunning, or they were talking about you.

It's probably all in my head. This is another thing about getting up early; it makes the day so long. I'm all out of sync and everything was already strange. By ten o'clock I was already looking around, waiting for somebody to walk through the door. Dani and her tomato soup feels like _days_ ago. So that's probably all it is. Nobody has showed up to keep me company. I'm just a little bit out of it.

After all, there's really no reason why I _should_ be able to get hold of either of them.

I left them both still at her place this morning. Had to get away from all that… fluid. All the snivelling, the hack of a cough that was starting to develop, mucus rattling in a scalded throat, it was… I couldn't stay there. And Moran said, and I quote, "I'll just stay and tuck the princess in, and then I'm going back to my own bed, after such a rude awakening." Which was fine, absolutely fine by me, and I left them there sniping about the use of 'princess', and whether the term is affectionate or sarcastic, and other such typical Dani-and-Moran sort of concerns. Came back, sorted out the build-up from overnight, had lunch (at about eleven, this was). The afternoon was dragging a bit.

The thought that came into my head, how I was going to make time start passing again, was that I could call Moran. I would get him to talk to some people we know down at the Met, and find out where our Creepy friend stands. No details, just subtle. Just so we'd know what we're dealing with. After all, the big lad is my primary play right now. I need to stay in control.

And Moran's phone was off.

So I called Danielle's phone, in case he was still over there. She might have taken a turn for the worse. He might have turned his own off so as not to wake her, but hers would still be on.

She answered. At first I thought she was just snivelling, throat still choked up. But as she went on, mumbling, it became very clear she was speaking with her mouth full. Pig. Absolute pig sometimes… "James, what can I do for you?"

Suddenly, it just seemed like the most important question in the world. "What are you eating?"

"Sandwich, just."

"…It's not a big long sandwich in a sort of soft baguette type thing prepared for you by somebody who is contractually obliged to refer to themselves as a sandwich artist, is it?"

Dodgy as hell; "What difference would it make?"

"What branch?"

"Hardly matters."

"What shoes are you wearing?" She really did give me an argument about that. Went on about how I'm not the first man to ask her that down the phone and the answer is always 'whatever you want'. Then she tried to trick me, that she was no longer wearing shoes at all, but furry slippers. I asked again, more sternly, "What was on your feet when you dragged your wheezing, disease-ridden arse down to Subway, dear?"

"…Red ones."

Red and white, five inch heel, shipped in from Los Angeles the day they became available. So my terribly ill associate went out today and bought her lunch from, oh, _any_ old branch of a chain we know the Creep to work for, wearing shoes she once described, in as many words, as her 'soul destroyers'. They have no power in and of themselves, but they… I can't explain it. The woman changes. I know the process; I feel the same way in good tailoring. I just can't explain it.

But the silence on the line was so innocent, so utterly vapid, and I didn't have the energy for the inevitable hours of interrogation. The truth, I suppose, will come to me eventually. It always does. So I moved on, "Why isn't Moran answering his phone?"

"Didn't he say he was going back to bed?"

"Mm-hm… Likely story. And what are you both up to, really?"

"Oh, sweetheart," she breezed at me, "only the veneration and protection of our beloved dark master, and the-" something unheard, because I hung up rather than listen to that shite. Then realized my mistake; she was probably counting on that. She knew as soon as she called me sweetheart the conversation was over.

But you understand, don't you, from even that much of a transcript, why I'm concerned. I'm not just pulling this out of thin air, am I?

Where they made their big mistake was not ten minutes later when Moran called. "Oh," I said, "So Dani can get in touch with you. It's just me you're not answering."

"Dani? I wasn't talking to Dani. I just woke up. My phone was off."

"Yeah, likely fecking story. So what is it that Sneezy and Sleepy have been getting up to since Doc walked out of the picture?"

A pause. He came back terse, but shaky; "You get an awful high opinion of yourself sometimes, mate."

"I just don't like people going behind my back." And speaking of… "Since when do you sleep on railway tracks? You should have told me if you'd hit hard times, Moran."

"What?"

"I just heard a train go past on your end of the line."

"No you didn't."

Okay, so now he was just lying. And he was calling me a liar. And saying I was hearing things. He wasn't even thinking about it anymore. _Somebody_, I'd wager, had whispered the words 'Deny everything' in his ear and he was taking that literally. I hope you can understand, I was getting frustrated. Sadly, it came over as just plain anger, asking again, "What are you playing at?" and asking it harder than before.

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"Then you don't need to worry about telling me, do you?"

Moran realized then he'd said too much and started giving me the whole nothing-to-tell, wasn't-what-I-meant line of crap. Must remember and tell him to bite his tongue out if he ever gets captured. He won't mean to. I'm not saying he'd turn traitor on me, never in a million years. In spite of everything, I trust him implicitly. He just shouldn't open his mouth sometimes, that's all.

Which is why I'm standing now in the corner shop, buying tins of tomato soup with a cab on the way. Moran's by a railway somewhere, but I know Danielle's at home, and if they think I'm not getting an answer out of one of them they've got another thing coming.


	18. Discovered:Covered

Jim

Is it immoral to interrogate a sick woman? No. Not if she's got information that appertains to your own security. This, essentially, is anti-terrorism, on a microcosmic level. And you can do pretty much whatever you want when it's anti-terrorism. That's not just me justifying myself; that's the _law_. Now don't get me wrong, them Towers coming down in the States was a terrible thing, truly awful. _So _many better, easier, more effective ways they could have done that… But we did get lots of very fun legislation out of it, right across the world. I'm actually being a decent law-abiding citizen for once in my life. Immoral? Piss off; it would be immoral _not_ to interrogate her.

In the nicest possible way, of course. After all, Danielle's a friend, as well as an associate, as well as somebody who's been working in secret all day about things I have a right to know about. That's why I brought over fresh soup supplies for her. Not buttering her up, just being nice.

Then she answers the door and it gets very difficult to remember all that friendship and niceness business.

All the evidence is right there behind her, and on her. The lethal red shoes are abandoned at the back of the sofa. The sandwich wrapper has yet to be thrown away, lying by the sink with the mayonnaise still gleaming on it. She sniffs again, but only very delicately, and is careful of how she rubs her nose; she must have spent a lot of time on all the make-up required to cover over the wreck she looked this morning. And she's wearing the sharp grey blazer she breaks out when she's pretending to belong to big business for work.

"Okay, you went out," I tell her. She opens her mouth to make excuses. I raise a silencing finger and wait for her to move so I can comfortably step in. Dani shuts the door and leans against the back of it with her arms folded, trying to look unimpressed, daring me to say something sensible. "And you went out," I tell her, "with the intention to be scary to somebody."

"Oh, now let's see you prove that, hm?"

"I don't need to prove it. This is not a court of law. This is your dive of a flat and I only need to know it. You went out to be scary and your intended target was the man I spoke with only this morning, affectionately known as the Creep. I'm not asking for a yes or a no, I'm telling you facts that are real and happened."

"His name is Carl," she says. Oh, you must be fucking kidding me… "He's from Denmark, originally, but his father was British." Fascinating, I'm sure, but I'm still stuck at the fact that our big, murdering friend with the tiny feet's name is _Carl_… Might have rethought if I'd known that. But nevertheless, we're tied to it now, commited, so deep i'the mire, all that stuff, all that shite…

"So you're not denying it anymore. You went out and that's who you saw. Got his life story while he did your salad, apparently."

"Standard reconnaissance, darling. Have to know what we're dealing with."

"Yeah, but Moran wouldn't be helping you with that. He'd be a hindrance. You wouldn't even ask him. So what's really going on?"

Finally, she finds the shame and decency to hang her head and just bloody blow her nose. Takes her jacket off at the same time she takes her fags out of the pocket. Now, even in her own space, she wouldn't usually spark up with me around, but she does it now. If I told her to put it out she'd do it. I don't know. I watch her dump herself into the armchair and fling the jacket over the back. Two drags later I join her. Just on the edge of her sofa, naturally; never know what you might find, what's gone on there. She sighs, "We're just trying to protect you."

_The veneration and protection of our beloved dark master_… Suppose that must be me, then. Can't decide whether or not that's flattering.

"Speak."

"Well, I knew you'd have dear Carl well-warned against using your name. That much was basic, but… When Seb described him, and please don't take this the wrong way, I wondered just how far a fella like that, of that description, with his obvious mental defects, just how much he might be considered to possibly be-"

"Scared of me."

It's a point. A threat is only really a threat when it comes from the right person. What my evasive thief was so eloquently not-saying there, is that I'm not what would generally be considered intimidating. Physically, this is. And the Creep (I'm sorry, I'm not calling him Carl) has only a limited knowledge of the things that _do_ make me intimidating. Dani goes on, "You met on his terms. I understand why, but we couldn't be sure he did. Do you really want him feeling like he's in control?"

"He's got a scrambled number and a meeting place he picked. He has no way of giving me up, even if he does make a stupid decision like that."

"He has your name. Do you want to risk it? Because I can call Seb off; there's loads of time."

Oh, now _there's_ a more important question waiting to happen. "'Call him _off'_? Since when do you give him orders?"

"I told him it was for you and he didn't ask." No more details are forthcoming. Says it works better if the players aren't really aware of what they're doing, makes it look _natural_, whatever that's supposed to mean. Asks that bitchiest of all questions, whether I trust her or not. The answer is no, frankly. But I'm not so far gone I can just come out and say that without a little hesitation. Long enough for her to add, "I'm just paranoid. I'm on such a run when it comes to luck. Wanted all the bases covered, y'know?"

Which reminds me, and I dig into my jacket pocket. Sunken down in the corner, small and smooth and cool, I find what I'm looking for and throw it to her by the knotted red string. The Chinese good luck charm, the one she handed back to me. But then it was always meant to be for my sister wasn't it? Yeah, well, none of my sisters are here. Dani'll have to do. This time she puts it on, and doesn't return it again.

* * *

Sherlock

Within an hour of the phone call, that empty floor is hiving. Lestrade and I are being kept away from it, in his office. Can't see much, just what I catch around the frosting on the windows. Saw Sally Donovan running around fetching coffees and it made me angry.

Lestrade, too, is making me angry.

"No way out of this now," he's saying. "My bloody case now, alright. Something like this, when it's important, half the time they'll take it away and give it to somebody who's done it before, somebody who's caught killers like this. Specialists, y'know. Mine now, though, isn't it? Thank you _very_ much." That was addressed to his phone, by the way, as he throws it down on the desk. At least I hope it was, because I'm the only other person in the room and if he was talking to me…

I put it out of my head and finish the transcript, hand the yellow legal pad over to him. "Is that legible?"

"Enough," he says. "And that's all of it? No other details?"

"He was finished before I had the chance to draw him out on anything." Of course, since the call I've thought of a dozen ways I could have found out _something_ or other but that doesn't matter, does it? That's just something to chafe at me and I don't have time for that. Keep playing it back in my head, listening for inflections and hints, for anything. I got two little facts out of that, but nothing else so far. They're down as margin notes. When he stops reading over the main text, Lestrade turns the page to study them.

"What's this?"

"What I heard and when I heard it. A steel door and the lid of an industrial bin where that arrow indicates, and a rumble at the other. I can't be precise. Sounded like a train but it was too small, went past too quickly. Articulated lorry, maybe. I wrote it all down, but I don't think it's enough to help."

Lestrade gives out this dry little snort that might have been laughter in some past life. "Couple more witnesses like you…" he says. Never gets a chance to finish the sentiment; the door opens and he's on his feet so fast it's more than a giveaway. I know before he says it; "Chief Inspector."

I stay in my seat. Keep looking in the direction I'm looking. Feels like the best plan; not to make a nuisance of myself until Lestrade has a chance to- "Can you _explain_ any of this?" says DCI Not-Usually-Bothered-With-This-Level-Of-Business.

"Well, sir, early on this morning there was a call made to my personal phone which we believe to have been-"

Even I am already shaking my head when Chief Inspector cuts in. "That's not what I meant." I feel his eyes land on me. Try and look back over my shoulder, but I still can't shake this feeling it's probably better if I don't talk. What I actually do is watch as Lestrade fumbles his wallet out of his coat, removes a business card and passes it to his superior. It passes me on its way. Very fine handmade card, a speckled, bone sort of a colour. I don't even need to read the black, engraved name. Seen cards like that before. Very rare gifts, those cards.

Lestrade says, "This is Sherlock Holmes. He's assisting. That," he says of the card, "is the gentleman you need to talk to."

You would expect him to question that, wouldn't you? This man at this higher level, climbing the ranks, you'd think he'd resent being referred to somebody else. In all likelihood, somebody he's never heard of. But then, maybe he has heard of my brother, because he accepts it. This time he speaks to me directly, "We'll still need to interview you." Fair. I could accept that, in the interests of fairness.

But Lestrade picks the pad up from the table and holds it out to him. "Already taken care of."

DCI, who wears his ID on his inside pocket and as he leans past, handing the pad back, I learn his name is Hazell, says, "Naturally. We'll have a chat later on about your involvement on this case. But for now, if you wouldn't mind stepping out, Mr Holmes-"

"Certainly." He holds the door. Waits for me to pick up my coat and everything.

But there at the door he casts his eyes around the room, looking for something I can't pin down until he shouts, "_You_, um… Donnelly."

It's Donovan, actually, but Sally doesn't correct him. She sets down the stack of papers she's carrying and comes like a dog called to heel. Just says, "Yes, sir."

He indicates me and says, "Room 4C downstairs, there's a good girl." That's it. That's all she gets,. And me, I get that cordial invitation over again, to come and be interviewed, sorry to have to do this, so on and so forth and all she gets is a room reference and condescension. Now, much like the woman in question, there's a reason my cuffs are buttoned but never in my life have I wanted so much to show somebody a set of bruised, fading train-tracks and ask him if he knows who I bloody am.

But I must be staring, because with one soft, manicured hand he gestures for me to start away from him, to be following Sally. And I go, in the end, but only because once we're in the corridor there's nobody to overhear me telling her, "He's closet-gay, you know. That's why he talks to you like that."

She says, "What?" like she doesn't believe it, but with a smile on her face.

"It's the eyebrows. Every time. Always the eyebrows. The neatly trimmed nasal hair. He's faithful to his wife but he hangs around very much the other kind of bar. You can smell four or five different trace aftershaves on his coat. At a guess? He buys drinks and as soon as things get too close to heavy he pulls out his I.D. and uses the word 'soliciting'. But that's why he talks to you like that; it's part of the cover. So I wouldn't worry about it." She opens her mouth to say something. "Excuse me, just going to make a quick phone-call."

The line's busy, so I wait and leave a message.

"Mycroft. Only me. Listen, just in case it gets back to you wrong, they're just interviewing me, it's not an arrest."


	19. Give:Gather

Sherlock

An officer called Calloway, who I gather has managed to gain the same position as Lestrade without even _that_ much personal charm, has three topics on which to question me. I knew this before he sat down. The first, and most obvious, is the phone call. Everything he needs to know about that is already written down and made available for him. The second is about the crime scenes, and what I was doing here this morning. Waiting for yesterday's photography. He doesn't know why it takes so long either.

It's strange; a member of almost any other profession, from till-staff to politicians will form an instant rapport with anyone who recognizes their frustrations, who points it out. Policemen seem to be immune. I can tell from Calloway's expression he hates the red tape and time taken as much as I do, but still, he acts offended. There's admirable workplace loyalty and then there's just stupid.

And his ire moves him straight on to what I suspect will be the last topic, and the one he's been sent here to explore. "And what exactly," he says, "were you doing on these scenes in the first place, Mr Holmes?" Still polite, you'll notice, still smiling. There's no accusation there. Not one that will come across on the recording anyway. That's in the eyes; they don't come to me until after 'exactly' and they flare over my name. I almost wish I could be intimidated, since he's putting so much effort into it.

"I was asked to go to the Coeur-Leon in Kensington in order to take a closer look at a case it was felt the police hadn't fully investigated." Then, remembering how he felt when I was complaining about departments he _doesn't_ work in, "Yet. Naturally this was mostly due to the massive drain on resources suffered in the last couple of weeks." See that? 'Resources'. That's one of _their_ words. You should remember this for your interactions in everyday life, because he reacts to it, weakens. One more blow to drive it home; "I believe it was felt you could use all the help you could get."

There's a relent there, though unspoken, "Who was it asked you?"

"There's a DCI… _Hazell_, is it? He's dealing with this. I don't mean to be uncooperative but-" But I honestly don't know how much I can say. Don't even know who he bloody works for. Well, can't give it an official name with one-hundred percent certainty and don't want to risk anything less, how's that? My interrogator looks for a moment as though he's not happy about this, deeply, deeply suspicious. "Believe me when I tell you there's nothing untoward, only it was felt that too much talk about it might just make the rumours worse."

"Rumours? What rumours?"

"That the Met were overstretched. Not up to the task. After the crime scare. It's tabloid nonsense, obviously-"

"Bloody right it is."

"Obviously. But you can see why they want to keep any outside help quiet. I _am_ sanctioned, there's nothing to worry about there."

And then, finally, he writes down Hazell's name, and moves on. Not a bad dodge. It's a pity to have to put so much time and energy into it, though. I can think of other places my energies might be better spent right now, can't you? Still, at least it was just that one question. I've come into these rooms in the past and spent _hours_ trying to answer nothing. The rest of this has been straightforward. Matter of fact, Calloway looks more bothered by the forty minutes we've spent in conversation than I am. Maybe our damned inconsiderate friend with the fourteen known bodies on his head got him out of bed this morning, or in on his day off.

I've never really understood the concept of days off. Surely if you're a detective you stay a detective? How can somebody just turn off everything they are for twenty-four hours, switch it all back on again when the alarm goes off the next morning? But I could be missing something, I suppose.

Anyway, for whatever reason, he starts into the wrap-up. Important questions, at last; "And on the phone this morning, you're sure you said nothing that could give away your identity _whatsoever_?"

"Nothing. As soon as I realized the caller wasn't actually acquainted with Lestrade I became understandably wary-"

"Nothing that might have put you in any danger?"

"Nothing." I could have given out my name and phone number and I'd tell him it was nothing. I do not want a police escort, don't want a guard at the door, _definitely_ don't want protective custody.

And that, it would seem, is that. All done. He's courteous, as they've all been, gets the door. But when I go to turn left, back towards the stairs and the office above and Lestrade, he's blocking that direction. Just in case courtesy turns out to work both ways I say, "Excuse me."

As I thought; one way street.

"I can't let you go back up there," he says. "Can't have a civilian privy to the details of any on-going investigation of this sort." Out of fifteen words, six of those (and all the ones integral to sense) were arguably jargon. "At least not without some hard evidence of approval. I'll speak to Hazell. You'll be contacted if we need you again."

He's joking. He must be. I found the bloody bodies and now I can't be involved?

But Calloway is content to stand there, until I turn the other way, and the only there to greet me is a door with a green sign above it, the usual white stick-man running out the usual white door. Take the hint, seems to be the message. On my way out the doors I compose a text, intended for Lestrade. 'Being cut out,' it says, in case he can help me or knows anymore about it. But then I remember how Hazell was with him, and the way I was treated by both Hazell and Calloway and… Not wishing to be cruel, but there might not be any point in sending a message like that to Lestrade, and there could be little harm in suspecting I might receive something similar from him in the near future.

* * *

Jim

So with the children playing their little reindeer games (all for my 'protection', of _course_), I was left to fill out my own evening, and to do my own legwork. It was what I wanted to use Moran for, but seeing as I was up and about anyway and _I_ was actually doing some work…

Me? Feeling out of the loop? Irritable, annoyed, bitter? Yeah, little bit.

But it had been left to me to meet our Scotland Yard contacts and it wasn't like I can't do these things for myself. Not dependent or anything stupid like that. I could do with a late lunch, at any rate. Keep getting told, don't I, to get out more… Bet they'll be bloody sorry they missed the chance and all, either of them. Beats a squashed bloody lunchtime sandwich prepared by a serial killer any day. Fuck them, I said to myself. I wanted a big chunk of some beast that used to be alive and was ideally still bleeding and an hour's enlightening conversation and-

And definitely not, on my way back, to get walked into outside the post office by some rude bastard who's just charged across the road playing with his phone and nearly caused an accident and doesn't even stop to apologize. Jesus, well, if I ever needed a reminder why I avoid coming down into the world as much as I bloody do… Wanker.

I should follow him home and get an address to send people round to. But y'know what, I'm well fed, and I've just spent some truly quality time with two very lovely young women and I just can't be bothered. They do this to me every time, y'know. Zandra and Charlie, they're called. Pair of lesbians we loaned a safe house to just before Christmas there, so they could torture a rather hands-on landlord to death. You wouldn't think it to look at them. I don't honestly think they're that sort of people, at heart. But they've coped admirably with the aftermath and done very well. We took nothing off them but the promise of their services and they've proved invaluable so far.

Thankfully, they're not cops. For one, I'm neither thick nor confident enough to take on cops, even bent ones, and think I'd survive that. For another, cops wouldn't have needed me to provide a spot. They know where all the nice, quiet concrete bunkers are already. And finally, they don't need to be cops. They're just as useful to me in their current positions.

You see, they're telephonists. Switchboard operators. When someone puts you on hold to transfer your call, it's the like of Zandra and Charlie that are redirecting you to a free phone. Of course, the system is mostly automated, computerised, but they're the first port-of-call. All the internal phones, and the lines out and in, they have access. So if something happens and all the phones light up, they can gather information piece by piece, sneaking from call to call for mere seconds, but it all builds up.

It's funny, but every time I call them they're expecting me. I wouldn't like to be slanderous, of course, but I feel like these little invasions of privacy might have been going on long before I started paying for them and providing wire-tap technology.

They're very relaxing company. I feel better than I did when I went in there (except for that prick and his mobile, but I was letting that slide, wasn't I…) I helped them find a flat, y'know. Obviously they didn't stay in the one that had the dead landlord and I helped with that.

What I mean is, there are a lot of nice, genuine people in the world and you never know who you might be storming into outside the windows of a post office in St James.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh aye. CID's been in an uproar since early this morning. Apparently the Creep's reservations about getting into contact with my recommended Dirty Harry didn't last long, and he didn't take much time out to write his script. Since then it's been all go up there, with no further contact from the killer (which is good, I told him not to go overboard). It's now the biggest case there is (which is also good) and they've completely given up trying to keep it from leaking to the press. Can't make up my mind whether that's good or not. Obviously the press already had it, but they had two incidents and no details. Now it's going to be front page, page two-through-five, eight, centrefold, and psychoanalysis in the G2. I don't think it affects us much. Until I'm sure, though, I will remain circumspect.

See? I can do the information gathering.

The only thing I can't make sense out of, and neither Zandra nor Charlie could make sense out of either, are some scraps they pulled out of the mash-up. 'Sounded important' they said, meaning the tones of voice and the people involved. So far as I can tell, there was some outside player there on the case. They didn't catch a name, but the whole mess seemed to be to do with untangling where his affiliations are.

I don't like it. I don't like not knowing if it matters. The thing I don't know about is the one that'll get me killed. I told them to keep an ear on it and get in touch if anything bubbles up.

Anyway, there's still time, now that I'm down on the ground, to do drinks with a TV crime correspondent who knows what side his bread is buttered on, and maybe a light supper with someone who can tell me what way tomorrow's papers are going.

Bloody expensive day out, this reconnaissance. Must get a look at the account Dani uses for expenses. That might be more of a drain than is really worth it. Not least because I suspect she counts high fashion amongst her expenses.

See? I can do all the face-to-face stuff. I haven't completely lost touch. Moran and Danielle, who needs them? A footballer-shooting loon and a loon who thinks of two nights as a long term relationship, who needs either of them? I'm fine as I am. Protection, my arse. There's nothing to protect me from. I'm doing quite alright all by my lonesome-ownsome, thanks very much.


	20. Weapon:Suspect

Jim

There's somebody in the flat when I get home. Not moving about or making noise, but they're there. That way you can just feel somebody being present. Remembering how this day started, feeling like years ago it's been so long since, I reach for the steel bar behind the coat stand. Pure paranoia, of course. Moran was with me when I met the Creep and I didn't even go straight home after that. Anyway, he had to open the restaurant this morning, didn't he? It's pure paranoia, but I fetch the bar out anyway, before I go any farther than the door. Doesn't have to be the Creep, after all, could be anybody.

Jesus, it really could be…

Or it could be Moran, giving me a heart attack, fuck's sake. Sitting in my flat, eating my food, this time of night. "Alright, Jim?" God, I almost keep hold of the bar to do him in with. It strikes me now we need some sort of signal. We've always needed it, and we've been remiss not to spot that. I'm not talking a red carnation left on the hall table or anything elaborate. Just some little sign so that I know anybody in the flat is somebody who is sanctioned to be in the flat.

"Bit edgy there, mate," Moran says, eyeing the bar in my hand. Says it like it's not even his fault. "Something happen?"

"I didn't know who you were, that's all."

"Yeah, but who else was it going to be? What I'm asking is what made you even think-"

I tell him, "It could be anybody."

"Ah, c'm-"

"It could be anybody, Moran, and half the time I don't even think about it." But as I'm speaking he's pointing past me, making me turn my head to find his jacket is hanging right there next to me on the coat stand. Which is fair enough, but he doesn't always wear it and he doesn't always hang it up. It's still an issue, and he's treating it like… And I reached for a steel bar, didn't I, when his snooker cue case is sitting right there. Silly me. There are pieces in that case, not of a cue, and I can put them together in decent time. "Okay, marginally more important question, why did you have your rifle with you today, in public, in our city where we live?"

He disappears down the hall, towards the kitchen, mumbling, "Never even took it out."

"You couldn't lie if your life depended on it. Worse, you couldn't lie if my life depended on it."

"Took it to have the sight realigned."

"Don't think just because you use jargon I'm not exactly familiar with I can't still hear that you're lying."

"It was only for show." And now we're getting a bit closer to the truth. Not all the way there, though; he still won't look at me. In fact, even though we're already surrounded by the mess he managed to leave just making himself a sandwich (should have got the Creep to sort me out with a business account), Moran sticks his head in the fridge rather than make eye contact. Ducking down to a lower shelf, he bends, and I realize the rifle's not all he had on him. His handgun, the special occasion handgun, the one with the painted saint on the handle, all tacky, Mexicali gangland style, that's stuck in the back of his jeans.

"Moran, you're a walking arsenal, now-"

Him, persecuted and enraged, starts bawling, "I was only following-!"

"Use the word 'orders'. Use it. I dare you."

And yeah, even Moran can understand that wouldn't be a good idea. Not when the person who should give him orders is the one trying to find out what the hell is going on. He calms down, goes all miserable, moping like a kid who has made a mistake too many and knows he's screwed now. He sits down and bites sulking into his sandwich. With his mouth full, "Dani said you agreed to trust her."

I try to be as kind and benevolent as possible, given the circumstances. He's been used, and left in this awkward position, and so I owe it to him to treat him with some little feeling. I sit opposite, leaning in like some simpering twat from planned-parenting, and tell him as gently as I can, "That was before I knew it involved the Travelling Firearms Show. Now talk. Just between you and me."

Obviously I've already had my ideas about this masterful over-arching plan. I just want confirmation. My own people to be straight with me. We need to have a meeting about this, I think. About marking out when one or any of us is in someone else's home, and about what's gone on today. And I need to have a quiet, private word with Miss Plan B about the all the sneaky support work.

Happily, on this one occasion, before it gets dangerous, the plan was relatively sound. Moran rambles and goes off on epic tangent sagas of justification for it all, so I'll strip it back and give you the facts. Danielle, as she already admitted, was worried about how I would have come across to the creep. ('Don't get us wrong,' Moran adds, with that lovely plural to protect himself, 'we know you're terrifying, but other people just need told sometimes, y'know?') Her plan then, playing off said-murdering basket-case's recent initiation, was to make it look like he really had stepped into the middle of something. And remember, when I took notes on him, it was very obvious that he liked that sort of idea, that delusional glamour. Psychologically, it was already totally sound.

So she made her tailored appearance while he was working and, I imagine, muttered just enough cryptic references to give him the idea, and then had Moran very simply follow him, with the case in one hand, with the other gun in his waistband. He followed the entire day, allowed himself to be seen once or twice, and found the whole thing very satisfying.

_This_ time, they're getting away with it.

* * *

Sherlock

There's somebody in the flat when I get home. He's made himself coffee and looks really quite comfortable at the little table by the window. Or as close to comfortable as he ever looks anyway. "Really, Mycroft, one more time and this becomes breaking and entering."

"Hardly," he says, "When I have a key." He does, too, he produces it from his pocket and holds it up where I can't see. Can't fail but see; the light catches on it and is flipped once or twice across my eyes. An accident, of course. He hasn't enough humour in him for it to be anything else. I don't think.

"Where did you get that?" A pause, just a moment of silence. "No, I can't believe I said that either. What are you doing here?"

Putting the key away, trying to look disinterested, but there's something else. Desperate energy goes in to affecting nonchalance. "Well, when one's only sibling answers the phone to a _serial killer_ he predicted-"

"I didn't say anything. I didn't give anything away." Until just now, of course. Just now, I said all that too quickly and gave away everything.

"I don't intend to have you watched," he says, straight off. I'm grateful for that. Honest conversation, between two people on the same intellectual level, you can skip rounds and round of tentative questioning, of feeling-out, just skip to the next important answer. I'm glad, sometimes, of Mycroft. "That's why I came over myself. You seem unfazed." And there's a tremor as his brow decides whether or not to knit, trying to figure out whether he should be more or less worried.

I can't think how to reply to that. It wasn't a question, anyway, and doesn't need an answer, but I can't even think of what to say. I'm pouring a coffee for myself from the same pot and that kills a little time. It's not that I don't understand the phrase or what he's really asking underneath it, all of that is patently obvious. But something else is blocking it. Something more important, which must be said, and said now. I just can't work out how _not_ to have it come out like childish whining.

What the hell; I'm the younger one, after all, and anyway, I've been traumatised by contact with a madman…

"You said I was sanctioned."

Mycroft, sounding almost surprised, "You are."

"Then why was I guided ever so gently out the door at Scotland Yard this afternoon?"

"Scotland Yard?" he laughs. Yes, laughs. It's alright, though; it's a harsh, bitter, derisive sort of noise, so it still fits. Just barely, but it still fits. "Because they've proven themselves ever so useful, thus far…"

"I can't do anything, for you or anybody, without that access, and-" But it's only at this point I turn around, and see him lifting his briefcase up onto the table. "Mycroft?"

"The rest of this," he says, "I will leave with you overnight. There is, however, one thing I'd like you to run an eye over now, if it wouldn't be too much trouble. A cursory look and a brief opinion, for the moment." It's all there. Photography for both scenes, lab reports, manifests of evidence gathered. And this he's handing to me now, two thin pages stapled together. A hastily-typed transcript, and not the same one I handed to Lestrade this morning. "He's been back in touch. I've marked the relevant section."

Probably not, but he's marked what he wants me to look at, certainly, with neat little stars of black ink.

Scanning the page, I keep seeing his name and ask, "How's Lestrade holding up?"

"…Beg pardon?"

Oh, dear, I've confused him now. "Never mind." I'll find out for myself after Mycroft is gone. I've got a good idea, anyway, based on what he wants me to read.

There's a line where Lestrade, obviously being fed his questions by the sort of psychology graduate who only ever used their degree to learn to bluff, asks the killer if there is anything he wants to say;

…_about yourself, or your work? Anything you feel like we should know about you?_

To which, and I'm a bit shocked because it really seems like Mycroft might have marked the right section after all, the killer replies;

_There might have been. Once, there might have been. But I am too important now. I may not identify myself. My work is having higher purpose now. _

_What do you mean, 'higher purpose'?_

_You are higher purpose, Inspector._

_And who was it gave you higher purpose? _(And here it is painfully clear that he's been triggered by the analysts - ) _God_?

The typists here have made a point of noting a possible sound of laughter here before the call was terminated. Their words, not mine. I'd be staying away from words like 'terminated', if I was them. Feels a bit much like tempting fate.

Mycroft sees my eyes stop moving, knows I've finished reading. Says, "Standard delusions of grandeur, naturally," he says. But doesn't mean it. Waiting for me to contradict him. There's an idea in his head, but I'm the one that has to put the first words to it, confirm his suspicions.

"Standard," I say.

Mycroft deflates, just a little, just enough to let me know it really meant something to him. Of course it's not a standard delusion of grandeur. Standard-delusion-of-grandeur would have told all and without compunction, the moment he was asked. But I had to know how deep this went with him. He's not annoyed, so it's not a simple matter of wanting to be right. There's more than just his pride riding on this and I'm reminded very strongly of the last time he landed in on me, when he was low and had been stepped on.

"Of course, if you leave it all with me, I'll be able to give you a more considered opinion very soon."

The tone of my voice, I think he knows I don't believe there's anything standard about this, as a case. He offers, in conciliation, "Lestrade is still a viable contact for you. He knows now to be more wary of his department, but when it comes to the on-site work, and anything he can give you-" And he stops there, because I understand.


	21. Consultant:Commissioner

Sherlock

It's not a delusion of grandeur. Not by a long shot. It's a delusion of servitude. The same sort of psychological imbalance found in high-ranking members of established cults. The master's favourite, chosen for better things, a purpose, ready for heaven. Don't think I'm getting all this from those few lines, either. The killer's language is full of his susceptibility to that sort of thinking. His burning desire to impress should have been clear to anybody from the time when we first spoke, and it has already been noted from the murders themselves that he lacks the creativity to match his care. The more I learn, the more it seems like he might have waited years for the right idol to express some mock admiration, to offer the right challenge. And now here he is, with a higher purpose and, for my money, probably starting to survey his next night's work.

There's no way he'll slow down. He's doing too well, or thinks he is.

I want the analysts to go away. I want to talk Lestrade through the next phone call. I could get something. Not necessarily anything to do with identity or location, nothing direct, but I could get something, I know I could. But I suppose there's no chance of that happening anymore.

The only other thing I have is the photography. And although I'm loathe to admit it, the more I look, the more it looks like Lestrade might have been right. Maybe I don't know what I'm looking for. Maybe there's nothing here to see.

I'm about to put them away when the unfortunately-usual thing stops me. The little girl's bed. No covers on it, but the sheet was put back on the mattress, and you can see, of course, where she slept. That was the intention, anyway. But she never slept on that fresh-made bed, she was already inside it. So why, then, is there a hitch in the sheet that could only have been made by a foot stretching out towards the corner? That's fact number one. Fact number two, that dent is far, far bigger than any child I've ever seen.

And now that I look at it, the same hitch is in almost all of the sheets, the same size and shape of a dent.

Of course. This is what I was starting to get at, thinking about the beds this morning. I was almost there, except that the phone rang. Speaking of which, better give Lestrade a ring now, let him in on this. I don't actually believe it's too long a shot to suggest that this could be a case breaker. Such an obvious thing to have missed, and right in front of us, and... But I've got it now, it'll be alright.

"Hello?" The voice that answers me is tense, nervous.

"Lestrade?"

"Oh, God," he moans. So apparently I'm back to being a nuisance, an annoyance again. We need a codeword, some way for me to know where I stand as soon as he answers the phone. "Listen," he says, "Bad time, Sherlock, alright? I'll call you back."

"No, but you don't understand-"

"Oh, I do, I really do, but I'm right in the middle of a very shit sort of evening and-"

"And if you'd just pay attention to me for twenty seconds, I could-"

"_Listen_!" he says again. Then, softer, more insistent, "Listen." Listen. Oh, well, yes, quite; his is the phone number being used by the killer. They are listening in on his phone. I'm not supposed to be involved, not supposed to have all these things spread out in front of me on the breakfast bar.

"Call me back."

"Yes."

I text him the landline number as soon as he hangs up.

* * *

Jim

There's no talking to Moran sometimes. For instance, I've told him, more than once now, that I'm absolutely fine and require no assistance whatsoever. What happened at the door earlier on was a blip. I was on edge and it's really rather embarrassing, and if he would just shut up about it, we'd be cooking on gas here. But he keeps saying, keeps asking, keeps talking.

"If you're really worried," he says, again, starting again, not knowing how close he is to just getting murdered, "and I understand, because why shouldn't you be, but if you are, it's no problem, I'll sleep in the spare room. I've nothing on tonight."

"I'm quite alright without the full Kevin Costner treatment, thank you."

"You'd need to be a lot nicer to me to get the full-"

"Don't finish that." God forbid he starts going down that sort of road. One Danielle is _more_ than enough, thank you very much.

"Sorry, couldn't resist."

"Getting too late in the day for that sort of humour... Reminds me; put the telly on. I want to see if we're on the ten o'clock news."

He's an easy-going sod and all. My watch, which was set by rolling news channels and is therefore unimpeachable, said nine-fifty-nine when I asked him that, and by the time the TV comes on we've still missed the headlines, the Big Ben bongs. Moran's just sitting down, saying, "They won't put a serial killer on the news until they've nearly got him. Or until he does something stupid. They don't want them getting any fame or recognition."

Poor Creep. He really did land the wrong vocation, bless.

But it's not him I'm looking for anyway. The news comes out of its flashy opening sequence, and while the anchors introduce themselves _all_ over again, I wait, hardly able to, hardly breathing. Waiting to hear, '_And tonight's top story is-_'

"-the breaking news that Thames Water has found itself at the heart of the latest whistle-blower scandal-"

"Yes! They bought it!" I've had Dani's number cued up on my phone since nine-fifty-eight. Now I hit call and wait for her to pick up. "You watching the news, love?"

"Yeah. Did alright, didn't we?"

"Can't turn your nose up at top spot. Now listen, what I need you to do is go back to the reservoir and get a sample that we can tox up. Have some little con type deliver it looking all scared and snivelling to BSkyB soon as, and we'll-"

"Wonderful idea, love, but send Seb."

I look over at him, then back to the phone like she's there. "But Moran is a _purifying_ influence. _You're_ the poisonous one."

"Poisonous one just leaving on a very important date. I am unavailable until tomorrow lunchtime, alright?"

"If this is anything to do with the Creep, I'm so on to you."

"Is Seb there? If Seb's there tell him I'm going to murder him with... with something vile. Make it up, you're so much better at it than I am."

* * *

Sherlock

It's more than an hour before Lestrade becomes free again, or at least before he finds the time to call me back. It's a hateful thing, waiting, now that I have information. I don't even know if it's worth anything yet and I never will if he doesn't call and I can't pass it on. This is no way to work. If I'm ever to consider continuing in this pursuit we have to find some other way to communicate, something more conducive to... to actually communicating, really. Putting out the butt of my fourth cigarette since the initial call, the phone _finally_ rings. I answer it before that first sound has finished.

"Lestrade-"

"Yeah. They're listening to the mobile and... Well, you're not exactly the favourite topic, right now."

"By which you mean-"

"I haven't lost my job yet, but as far as anyone here is concerned, I'm ignoring you."

"Understood. I have news for you, though. Are you in your office?"

"Yes."

"Look at the crime scene photographs. The beds, in particular." I spend a minute explaining to him about the sheets, until he confirms he can see what I'm saying. "Tell me all that bedding is still with the evidence."

"Why?"

"Because the killer was the one who lay down to make those indentations, after the beds were made, after the murders, after putting the mattresses back in place. Skin cells, Lestrade, sweat. If he's ever been arrested or had a swab taken for any other reason..."

"You're right... Looking at the evidence manifests it's all still there, I just don't have any results for it yet... So could be... My God, you're right."

"And you're very bloody welcome."

He corrects himself then, albeit with dry sarcasm, "Thank you very much, Sherlock." Then goes on, muttering to himself, "Now, let me think, how do I do this?"

"I'd imagine you just walk out into the office and tell somebody to get it done? Check the shoulder patches on your dress uniform, see what rank we left off at."

"Don't be a prick. I'm already going to have to lie about who was on the phone. If I charge out there talking about the pictures all fresh and new and having just hung up, they'll know there's something going on."

"Well, show it to somebody else then." God in heaven, do I have to do everything for the man? "Explain it the way I did to you. Use Donovan, she's smart, they'll believe it from her."

"Who? Sally?"

"Lestrade, is there a single other officer in your department you refer to by their first name?"

A terse, grimacing pause. He tells me, "You get awfully judgemental sometimes, y'know that?"

"Call her in like you've spotted something but can't put your finger on it. If you'd like, I could stay on the line until-"

"I'll manage, thank you."

"You're welcome."

* * *

Jim

I got the International Woman of Mystery (for so she seems determined to be) via her GPS again. She doesn't always switch off her phone if she's being sneaky, especially not if she thinks she's fobbed me off already. And to my surprise (worry, fear, terror, insert adjective of ill-feeling here) she's nowhere near Carl the Creep, or anywhere His Murderousness would hang around. The man is gleaming proud he works in a sandwich shop, fuck's sake; I don't think he'd be hanging around the casino at the Vic, do you?

So me, not thinking, being myself, I go to walk in. The plan, naturally enough, is to find her, ask her what the hell she thinks she's doing playing poker, which is the only reason she comes here when she's not cop-hunting, when I have work for her to do. Naturally, of course, I am stopped at the door,a nd reminded in a very discreet and admirable way that I was told not to come back, the other night, when they threw me out.

Now the plan is to _find_ a way in and murder her across a roulette table. Just spin her round maybe, until her head pops.

But the first thing to do is fair warning. Y'know, I think I change my mobile so often, not for work or security or anything like that, but because I get _so_ fecking sick of just looking at it.

"_Really_, James," is what she says instead of hello, "I'm trying to be irresistible here. We're talking about a happily married man who could prove really rather useful and-"

"What is he? Keyholder at Windsor Castle? No, no, bank manager down Threadneedle Street, that's it... Or is it another fashion designer, because I seem to remember on famously, flamboyantly gay gentleman having a tabloid nightmare over-"

"That was an exception," she warns, sternly. "I don't usually do that kind of thing. I take it, by the way, you're standing on the street outside cold and alone and feeling embarrassed?"

An unnecessary, somewhat desperate gambit, wouldn't you agree? "Not for long." No, I'm going round the back. Service entrance. And while theoretically they're supposed to pay the same kind of attention, one fake tale that I'm the scout for a high-rolling celebrity who wants to sneak in and a little bit of bribery, I'll be with her soon as. I can hear glassware, so she's probably in the first floor bar rather that up in the poker room. I'll catch her while she's down drinking between hands.

Bet she thought she was dead clever too. Whatever she's covering up, to have thought ahead and gotten me barred. Bet she thought she was something else, alright.

You want to see the look on her face when I tap her on the shoulder. She's at the balustrade, overlooking the tables. At the very first glimpse of me, she turns faster than human and tugs me away with her, breathing, "If he _sees_ you-"

"I don't know; male attention makes you look like you deserve male attention, doesn't it?"

"Makes me look like a slag when I'm aiming for mistress, yes, yes it does."

"Mistress? Sounds a bit serious for you."

Danielle rolls her eyes, nods back over her shoulder. "Don't get spotted. Same table you were looking at the other night. Dark, very tall, younger than the others, thank God." So I wander back over there, real casual. Clock him among tonight's selection of bored coppers. Their numbers are depleted; comrades must be dealing with the Creep. Dani stands at my shoulder, facing the other way, saying quietly, "The Assistant Commissioner in charge of the Specialist Crime and Operations Directorate." A department including such delights as Serious Crime and Homicide, Serious and Organized, Covert Policing, police intelligence operations... This is, very likely, why she'd rather I didn't show my face again. That's the wrong person for me to get to know.

All she has to say on the matter, "Lovely gent."


	22. Deference: Defiance

Jim

By the next afternoon, I'm reaping the rewards of just letting her get on with it. No sign of the great courtesan herself, but an email that simply says, _No kill-shot yet, but he took me to see his office_ and an attachment; the transcripts of all three telephone conversations. Yesterday morning, last night, one in the early hours. For all I know she was there for that one.

Creepy's been a busy boy it seems. At first I'm not sure how I feel about that, but when I get a look at all the chat, it starts to look like maybe he just likes being in touch with them. He'll probably get bored and get it down to the essentials soon enough.

"Moran!" I call, and he comes in from pretending to work on a contract two weeks from now and secretly actually watching _Deal Or No Deal_ on his phone (the man thinks I'm an idiot – the stench of Edmonds is pervasive and unmistakable). "Come and run eyes over these for me."

"What, mine, or do you want me to go out and find some?" I shove him the first and third scripts. Keep hold of the second one. He goes to the sofa and settles to it while I look again at that one. I'm not so sure about it. The rest are relatively harmless. The main question with them is who answered the first call. But the second unnerves me.

It's a bit soon, isn't it, for him to be talking about higher purposes?

"Moran, if a murderer says 'higher purpose', who gave it to him?"

"God, Satan, next-door's dog. But the Dalmatian's dead, so one of the other two." That's comforting, for all of thirty seconds; if I were a cop I'd be wondering why there was no other religious preoccupation in anything the killer said. There's no mention of God or guidance, guilt or falling, servant or warrior. Nothing. In fact, I think the real problem I'm having with offering any decent analysis is because he's so determinedly… _bland_. Once you get past that voice there's nothing to hold on to.

The first conversation, with the stranger, _Ask Dirty Harry what he thinks of my work_, that's childish, almost sweet. That's a plea for recognition as clear and straightforward as you're ever likely to find. The second, even when he's talking about his higher purpose, you can imagine his pride, can't you? I mean, if even you weren't treated, the way I was, to that grin as he produced his uniform cap out from his anorak, you can imagine him just glowing, thinking he's special, thinking he's the One.

And the third one, on the third one he doesn't say anything at all, really. It's only one page and not even that.

My next question to Moran; "Pick one thing off that sheet that sounds important."

He shrugs. "Sounds to me like he's lonely. Three inside twenty-four hours? Fucker needs a girlfriend."

"Find me a woman you'd wish that on and we'll think about it. Anyway, remind me again what our current record is on you ringing me inside twenty-four hours? I forget."

"Seven," he says, without shame. "But I maintain that four of them were business and two were boredom. Only one was loneliness. You try lying on your belly on a freezing cold roof for a whole day."

And you, dear, ordinary, everyday soul, try finding yourself on the other end of the line when somebody suddenly drops the phone because the perfect, clean shot has just happened for him and he has to take it… "Wait, do you think that's what he could be doing? Like maybe he's stuck watching whatever his next challenge is and he just gets bored?" So by the third phone call he'd run out of even mildly interesting things to say and just wanted to ask how Lestrade was. Bet the trevors got their knickers in a twist over that, reading too much into it. I bet if they hadn't already been moved, the Inspector's loved ones were all whisked off quick-sharp after that. But it's not, is it, it's not a threat… He was only asking.

Four work, two boredom, one loneliness.

Moran takes the second set of papers off me, scans them all again and starts nodding. "I'd say it's more than likely. It all speaks to me of the desperate need for somebody to play I-Spy with." Like Moran freezing his balls off on that roof, like Dani whispering inside a museum plant room until the cleaners went home. Usually I just put them on speaker and keep working but at least they have that much. If they ask very nicely, I'll leave the phone next to the radio.

All of a sudden I feel shit. Poor Creep, sitting out there on his own somewhere, with only his own company (oh dear God) and occasional phone calls to a panicking police inspector to keep him… at his current level of sanity. I reach across the phone and lift up the phone.

"What are you doing?" Moran says. The tone of his voice is something I'm much more used to hearing from his mate; derisive, disbelieving, like I couldn't _possibly_ be doing what he thinks I'm doing. "You can't ring him. No way, that is _one_-way traffic."

"I know you didn't just tell me what I can and can't do, Moran. I know that in my heart and my ears must be deceiving me."

He rolls his eyes and sits forward to explain. Not the most eloquent of gents normally, it seems we've come to something he understands and can talk about. And it's not football or the army. For all I know this is a one-off, so I owe it to him to pay careful attention. If I keep the phone in my hand it's only because the sound of setting it down might put him off, might puncture this rare little moment. Swear. Scout's honour.

"He only ever gets in touch with you. If you call him, and especially if you call him with no definite purpose and only because you suspect he might be bored, then you're not a privilege anymore. He calls you, and waits with his breath held to see if you even want to answer him. You can't go switching that around, then he doesn't feel like you're a danger anymore. You're supposed to be above all this, and way too busy, and hardly even think of him except that he's got that one stupid little job you asked him to do with the cop. You don't really give a fuck about that, though, it's just something you wanted done. You start calling him you turn into a mate rather than… whatever you are. A leader, a boss… A hero. If he rings you, be kind, and he'll love you all the more for it, but no way you can ring him, Jim, you'll wreck it all."

I put the phone down. Resist the urge to ask him where all that came from. He knows what he's doing, y'know. Knows what he's about. Don't get me wrong, don't think I didn't know that before now. The people around me know what they're doing. Sometimes you just have to admit these things to yourself in so many words. Just let yourself accept, appreciate.

* * *

Sherlock

Three calls in twenty-four hours. He's planning the next one, there's no question about it. The latest came in before dawn. Of course I didn't hear of it until lunchtime. Even then, Lestrade's call was quick, and cryptic. The corner of my street, he said, if I wanted to know any more about it. Honestly, you'd think we were the villains of the piece, him and I…

Nonetheless, here I am, walking towards the corner of my street, where the lunchtime rush from the nearest school has left a drifting sea of sandwich papers floating back and forth in the fine, warm breeze. A young woman in a green uniform is going about with an extending claw, dull-eyed, placing them one by one in a black bin bag. Beyond her, looking equally uninspired, Sally Donovan at one of the outside tables. Sitting on the outside edge of her seat, one foot not quite tapping so her knee bounces.

Before I can ask if she's waiting for me, "_There_ you are."

It's been less than twenty minutes since Lestrade rang. "Am I late?"

"I-" She checks her watch and sighs, "No. Sorry." Jittery. Dry skin. Sunken eyes. Up all night. Full of caffeine, little else.

"Do you want lunch?"

"No, I have to get back."

"Tell Lestrade I didn't show up. He'll believe you. I'm historically unreliable. Please eat something. You look dead." And I can't sit here starving; it's not good for the body and that's not good for the craving. Maybe it's not just misery that loves company after all. And Sally is silent, which means she can't think of an argument against, or doesn't want to anyway. It doesn't take much more goading to get her there. It's not much longer before we're at that same table and she looks a lot more relaxed, a lot happier.

Looks at me lighting a cigarette and says, "They'll kill you."

Other things would kill me faster. "One vice at a time."

"Oh. You're on the wagon?"

"Something like that."

Appreciative, nodding. "Fair play. There's people I wish would join you." Then, quickly, like she's said too much, she starts fishing in her handbag. Comes out with a small black memory stick. "Lestrade sent you this."

"What is it?"

"The recordings from the two calls you didn't answer and, and this is a quote, anything else he could lay hands on." So this is what took so long; sneaking evidence, the details of which are being kept very much under wraps, out of the building with Donovan. Again, I just can't help but think that these are usually the tactics of those who would classically wear _black_ hats, rather than white. She hands it to me with the question, "So who are you?" She knows. Knows my name, has seen me, understands all that. I don't understand what she's asking. "I mean, what do you do? On the one hand it's like you're important and on the other nobody wants to know."

Now, this is a slightly different question. And it would be a lot easier to answer if I knew what to call Mycroft and how he relates to the Met.

I think Sally sees me hesitating, though. Starts smiling, the kind of smile that glows, stretches the face against its will, like she's trying to hold back laughter. "What? What's funny?"

"Now I know they were wrong."

"Who? About what?"

"The gossip, when you disappeared after the interview, was that you were-" she pauses, apparently determined not to laugh out loud. I wouldn't mind if she did, I swear. Tossing her head like it's utterly ridiculous, "That you were a… like, a _spook_."

"MI5?"

"Something like that."

"How do you know I'm not?"

"Spook would have had a cover story ready, wouldn't he?"

"Maybe I knew you'd think that." Biting the inside of her lip, jolting herself sober. That's it, decision made; she isn't leaving this table until she laughs. "And now you're thinking this is a stupid conversation, and therefore there can't be a scrap of truth in it at all, but you need to go a step farther than that to spot that the ultimate cover for an intelligence officer who can't explain himself is utter stupidity. Don't you see it? I'm trying to teach you suspicion, Sally, don't turn your nose up at it." That, this last, does the trick. Finally, some sound of joy gets to escape her, even if it is born out of ridicule. I don't care; it'll do. "Feel better?"

"Well, except for the crazed mass murderer on the streets-"

"Yeah, except for him, obviously."

She has another bite of her sandwich before the thought strikes her, nodding over at the little stick in my hand, "Shouldn't you be going to listen to that?"

"To help with the case. Yes. I will. Soon; first I'm going to help with the case by maintaining one of the key officers. You're useless to them without these ten minutes, y'know." I had gone on talking there, but she snorted at the word 'key'. "Something wrong?"

"I think you mean 'tea', not key." Then, after thinking about it for a moment; "The sheets. That was you, wasn't it? Obviously it couldn't be you because you're not supposed to know, but it was you. I knew Lestrade didn't spot that himself. I'm not saying he's thick or anything just that… Well, he'd already looked at those pictures. And when he's looked at something-"

"He doesn't look again. Like most people that way. Everybody ought to have somebody to re-examine whatever they do." Rather generous of me, wouldn't you say? I mean, just the fact that I'm not going on to say that 'most people' should not be allowed to become officers of the law and anyone, especially a Detective Inspector in charge of a case like this and hoping to climb the CID someday, who looks at a thing seriously only once ought to be imprisoned himself for a time, that's bloody generous. She has to go back there and respect him, pretend to at the very least, so I don't say that in front of her. "Sally, can I say something and you'll take it as advice, and not a criticism?"

"I'm thick-skinned."

Not as thick as she thinks. Nevertheless, "Don't ever look at something once. And it's not nosiness to pick up what someone's finished with and look at it again. This is how you don't stay the tea girl forever, because you don't deserve that, but that doesn't mean it won't happen. I have been useless, in my time, and it's a bloody helpful thing to see what other people miss. Don't bother caring who you annoy; if you're right, they can't ignore you."

"Who are you?" she asks again. Her interest, this time, is less to do with professional gossip. It's warmer and more personal.

Not a spy, or a policeman, thank God. Somebody giving far too much time, getting far too much pleasure out of this sandwich. Somebody who ought to be listening to some recordings right now. No one, really.


	23. Stay:Go

Sherlock

The recordings, while given to me in good faith, were no real boon. I spent hours with them and got nowhere. The actual dialogue told me nothing the surprisingly-accurate transcripts hadn't already, or which I hadn't guessed. The third call was banal. The only thing about it that might have, in the least, been considered striking is how genuine the killer sounded when he enquired after Lestrade's health. But that wasn't even the real problem. I never really thought I'd get anything out of the dialogue. It was the background noise I'd wanted. That was what I thought was going to crack it. Because wherever he is, if he was up at five in the morning and bored enough to ask how Lestrade was feeling, I'm _convinced_ he was overlooking his latest hunting grounds. I really thought...

But the police recording equipment only seems to have wanted the words. I understand, it's very them, but it's also useless. There are sounds, yes, and I wrote down what I _think_ they are, but there is no clarity, and no guarantees. I could make no decisions, no assumptions, not even an educated guess.

That's why I called Mycroft. Asked him if he didn't want to swap tasks for the afternoon.

"What on Earth do you mean?" he said.

"You take these tapes to somebody who can clean up the sound and properly analyse them, solve the serial killer case, and I'll look into that mastermind theory of yours." That stopped him, silent. "Well, that's what you were getting at, isn't it? Last night, when you asked... Oh, don't tell me they listen to your phone too?"

"Don't be silly, of course they don't."

"That reminds me, I'll need to borrow something to bug a mobile. Is that possible?"

He laughed at the question and then asked me why, and I told him it was just a hunch. Maybe, I said, nothing would come of it. Not to get too excited. Still, he brought it with him. We swapped, on a street corner like real spooks, the recordings and my notes in exchange for an envelope containing a tiny black sticker. Crude, he said, but effective, best he could get at short notice. It'll do.

Mycroft wanted more details. I half-suspected he might have had me followed, so I changed buses a couple of times, then ducked down into the station at Angel and rode to Camden Town. It's no walk at all from there, and I'm fairly certain I wasn't shadowed. It was by this safe, circuitous route that I brought myself to the stairwell of a mews, a quiet corner off the main street. Above me, a cat is mewling and a woman laughs, and until this moment I wasn't even sure if she still lived here.

Like it said, just a hunch.

As I climb towards her I keep telling myself that she is a means to an end. I haven't seen her in almost a year, and even then she only ever used me for her own ends, her own protection, and so I owe her nothing. I climb the stairs with a clear conscience, which will remain clear. I owe her nothing. Her name is Danielle. She's a thief, operating somewhat above the common street level. She's the best contact I have in these matters, but she knows who my brother is; just asking is out of the question. I owe her nothing.

On the third floor landing I knock her door. Her laughter ceases. The cat makes one more noise, maybe confused as to why the playing has stopped, and that's all. Movement as she rolls up from the floor, footsteps coming towards me. Then the darkening at the spyhole as she puts her eye to the other side. The door opens only cautiously, on the chain; like I said, she knows who my brother is.

"Purely personal business," I say. I try and keep my voice quiet, drag up a little old shame from somewhere. It's not difficult. At least today it can be useful, all part of the show.

I think 'personal' is the word that does it; she only shuts the door to fling it open again, looking me over as if she can't quite believe I'm still here. I get that a lot, actually, among people who knew me... before. I don't often get them glad to see me, though, and I think, beyond her suspicions, Danielle is. "Hello, you," she smiles. Cautiously, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Can I come in?" She thinks about it, before she backs away from the door, leaving it for me. But she stays on her feet; until she knows why I'm here there no comfort, no chance to relax. "It's not hard to explain, I just didn't want to do it on the landing. I... It's that step where you're supposed to go round apologizing to all the people you messed up and I-" In a second, she's overwhelmed, and with a delighted gasp which is genuine and makes me feel sick she has her arms around me. With just the very tip of my finger, I reach down to the phone in her back pocket and apply the little sticker to the top corner of the back shell.

That's all it takes. But now I have to stay and finish this out.

She takes me by surprise, grabbing my arm and pushing back the sleeve. Counting with her forefinger, "One-two-three and... is that a fading fourth or-?"

"I think that's just a freckle, actually."

She hugs me again, this time with her head on my shoulder so she can say in my ear, "Then you have nothing to apologize for. You only ever helped me anyway." I hold her back from me so I can study her face. Don't worry, I'm looking for something specific. I find it, too. Smaller and whiter and more faded than I would have thought possible, the two ends of a long scar are just visible where they cross her jaw and cheekbone. I gave her that, with the violin bow. But it's a long old story. I just have to _act_ like it hurts me to see that. That's all it is, an act.

An act when I turn away from her, already feeling for the door, and tell her, "I have to go. Lot of people to see."

"Stay," she says, grabbing my hand. And then her grip twists, taking me by the wrist instead, hard, her forefinger burying itself in a nexus of nerves between one too fragile tendon and a bruised, tormented vein and says, "Stay." I turn back. She has her phone in her hand, the top back corner muffled against her palm. Bloody phone's red anyway, would have been spotted at a mile. "Stay and tell me why you came here with a contact mic and tried to bug me."

"It's nothing to do with Mycroft," I tell her, very, _very_ quickly. "Well, it is, but he doesn't know I'm here. But I am getting clean, that wasn't a lie."

"And I'm still very happy for you," she says. "Only I'm a little bit pissed off for any more hugs, love, alright?"

* * *

Jim

It's not often I'm left pacing the floor over another human being. I'm not used to being useless, see? Usually there's something I can be doing to help, and that eases things, but right now I just don't even know where any of us stand, so I can't prepare, so there's nothing I can do, and so I am pacing the fucking floor in the office wondering where the fuck this is all going to end up without even the _slightest_ fucking clue as to the answer.

I don't need this right now, by the way. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm in the middle of one of the biggest events in my not-uneventful life to date. I'm playing with cops, for the first time. I met a serial killer, face-to-face, _voluntarily_, right? I do not need this extra shite, I don't have time for it.

Feels like years. Feels like I should be wearing a rut in the floor by now. In reality, it's been about half an hour. It's been a long day, lot of things to get done. Had to do some work that wasn't the Creep, just keep things ticking over, keep the clientele in line. Even with Moran about to help (once he ran out of box-opening extravaganza reruns to gasp at), it was dinner time before we got any breathing space. Before I realized Miss Mies hadn't put her head in all day either. Thinking she must have done very well with her new pursuit if she was still occupied now, happily married man my arse.

I swear I didn't call her to rip the piss out of her. I called to see what was going on, nothing more. And maybe to get her to bring over dinner. I'd been working too hard, I didn't feel like cooking and now I don't even feel like eating anymore. But I definitely didn't ring her just to laugh and call her names. _Maybe_ 'pig-fucker'. You wouldn't deny a man one little 'pig-fucker' under the circumstances. But no bacon jokes, and definitely no oinking noises. No, Moran had already called that privilege for himself and I, being a grown man, didn't want to anyway.

Fuck, what am I joking for, I don't know yet if it's funny or not...

She answered, so I know she's alive.

And then she called me Michael and asked how Treadstone was keeping. _Michael_ could be anybody, but there's one Michael in particular she murdered last year and I helped her get rid of him. 'Treadstone' used to be her cat. He's not anymore, he's gone now, usurped by he of the sharp claws and as-yet unimpaired reproductive functions. But Treadstone's to do with last year too. We used him as code. We used him as code when she'd been kidnapped and was under torture, so... I mean, you see where I'm coming from, don't you?

There was somebody there with her, somebody she couldn't speak freely in front of, couldn't even call me _Jim_, the most ridiculously bland of names. _Alright, Michael? How's my Treads these days? _And me, I was in the background of all this telling Moran to go over to hers and find out what's going on. Like I'd spoken to her, _No fear, love. Talk later_. And that sign-off is all the tenuous comfort I've got. That, and the weight of my phone in my hand, knowing Moran's going to call any second and tell me everything's one-hundred per-cent. It's just one of her lovers she has over there, she didn't want to talk in front of him, she's sorry she worried us. And then we can eat dinner, him and I, and plot a terrible fecking vengeance, because I will kill her myself if that's the case, but at least I'll know she's alright for now.

See? It's ringing now. What'd I tell you? See?

"Moran?"

"How long would it take you to clear down the flat?"

I don't need to ask what he means. "Hour, hour and a half."

"Start. I'm on my way back. Explain when I get there."

"And Danielle?"

"Alive and well. She'll buy you all the time you need, but she thinks she might be compromised."

"Shit. I knew I should have hauled her off that fucking cop."

"Worse than cops, mate. I'll explain when I get there; no more over the phone alright?"

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshit – it's the only word I can think for all first long minutes, thinking shit, fucking Christ, fuck's sake. But I've got work to do now and there's no time to stand around swearing and hating the fact that this could ever even happen. It was always a possibility and as such it was always planned for. All the real work, for instance, is on a detachable hard drive. That includes contact details, so all the work phones can have their sims changed. The landline is a scambled one and doesn't need to be worried about, but I unplug it anyway. Anything on paper goes into a sealed steel case. This gets hidden in an overnight bag I can take out with me and wherever I end up I can arrange for the document disposal people to pick it up. Pack a couple of things, move the documents for spare identities out of the safe, try and remember how much petty cash I'm hiding, and where, and if it's enough to look suspicious or can just be abandoned.

I get through most of it before Moran gets back. He locks the door behind him, does up both bolts. By then I'm behind him. He's got a note in his hand and I take it. Dani's handwriting. It's hasty and untidy but still recognizably hers. The words, at first, are gibberish. If it had been seen or taken from them, I doubt anybody could have made sense of it. But if you were there and you've been living it, it's clear as day.

_Bond on the blower_, it says. _Trying to anyway. M suspects bagpiper-footbomb-nuke. Will pursue. Get safe_, it says, _Then please advise_.

Government agent of some sort tried to bug her phone. They already believe there was someone behind the recent crime spree. She'll find out how much they know, and wait for orders. Oh yeah, it's all just right next door to English...

"Did she look in danger?" I ask Moran, following him. He goes to the mock fireplace in the living room and removes a handgun I didn't know he kept there, and two full clips.

Him, like reporting to a superior officer, "Far from it. Seemed in control of the situation, certain any affiliation was only a suspicion. Wrote the note at the door under the guise of giving an address and directions. Was in company of tall man, dark, didn't appear to suspect me. Low-level if he's even the agent she means; didn't look like Vauxhall."

There's another firearm, another ammo cache in the spare room. Also a cheap steel lockbox of foreign currency and false documents. And a French Connection make-up bag full of lock-picks and combination scanners and all sorts he seems determined to save. "Is all that always here?" I ask him.

"Yeah. Is there a safe house ready or are you better staying at mine?"

"Safe house, nowhere known."

"I'll just fetch the Uzis."

"Christ alive..."


	24. Minibar:Cocktail

Jim

Moran says it had to happen sometime. For one, I don't think he's right. There's something we could have done. One or all of us, some extra care or precaution we could have taken. For another, I wish he wouldn't say it anyway because it doesn't make it any easier to take. Now, the world hasn't ended; they didn't get any of us. _Yet_, I suppose. The work is safe too. I'm still not a known face, I don't think, and once we get Dani back she'll be able to report on it all.

This didn't have to happen, though, I'm sure of that, and I hate the fact that it has.

"If we can find out," I tell Moran, "who's responsible for this? Don't get offended when I don't ask you to shoot them, okay? It'll be in the post. It's just that I'll have to do some work first to make it much harder than _just_ shooting them, okay?"

"Understood. Appreciate the advance warning. You're looking a bit murderous yourself there, mate. Do yourself a favour; try and keep it down for now. It won't serve you 'til the time."

"Appreciate it." I really do. It's sound advice. But it's easier said than done. Where I'm from, the way I do business, you go after the person you want. And yes, maybe that involves finding some roundabout way to get them, fine, but you do not try to use their nearest lieutenants. It doesn't work for the drugs squads and it will not work for these fuckers. Top of the list, my lieutenants are too fucking smart, or they wouldn't be who they are. I make jokes about Moran and his big mouth, but that wouldn't really happen in the pinch.

And damn close to top of the list? It's just rude. And I really, really hate that, in business. So calm down, yes, is good advice, but maybe not just yet. Maybe not while I'm only just starting to shape in my mind how fucking biblical it's going to be when it comes.

* * *

Sherlock

The good news is, I don't feel like I'm in danger.

The bad news is Danielle Mies has deceived me, and the way I feel, before. Sometimes I feel that may well be what her business is, even before she could dream of picking the first pocket.

So far, she has sat next to me, less than a foot between us, on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. Very calmly, without a word, with the tip of a steel nail file, she scraped the little sticker off her phone. Went and washed it down the sink, left the water running. Sorry, Mycroft. Since she came back, she's been using nail varnish remover, sharp acetone, to wipe away the residue.

"So," she says, "I was to be getting an explanation?"

"You're my best criminal contact. And I needed to know... If I made you think of anything."

"Are you being deliberately vague, or do you want to take a second and plan what it is you want to say?"

When I was at my worst I could have phrased this perfectly in half a heartbeat. Or at least, that's what I'm telling myself. In actual fact that's just how quickly I would have said it, mistakes and all. Would have given too much away. Maybe that's why she used to like talking to me so much.

The way I put it, eventually; "There is a rumour, currently, amongst the security services, about the criminal classes. And it occurred to me that the best way to test its veracity would be to make the same rumour move in the criminal classes and see what came out of it."

Putting it together, simplifying it, "Bug me, knowing I'd be wary considering how we parted ways, see who I ran to or warned... It's quite a sound plan, actually. Little bit too subtle to work properly. I mean, I believed your twelve-step story. There's also the fact that you could have just asked. I owe you that much for not telling your brother I'm still in the country. I don't forget favours like that."

Decent of her. Maybe I'm spending too much time with the like of Mycroft and Lestrade. Forgetting, the way the proud and the thoughtless will, that just because somebody operates outside of the law doesn't mean they aren't still somebody. Forgetting everything I already knew about a woman just because I knew she was a thief.

She says, "Does he know you're here, by the way?"

I toss it up. There's a safe answer and a true one but... But she's being straight with me, so far anyway. "No."

"Okay. So what's this rumour then?"

I tell her. What else can I do? Sorry Mycroft, sorry, Sally Donovan, but some spook I turned out to be. Captured my first time out and now about to just ask a straight question. It's so ridiculous there's almost a chance it could work. "The recent spike in the crime rates. The rumour is that somebody... _orchestrated_ that."

Perfectly serious, with real interest in those sharp eyes, she says, "What, like a puppetmaster sort of idea?"

"Yes."

"Like a Blofeld?"

"What?" But when I turn my head for her answer, she's just starting to smile. In a dark and uncontrollable way, like she doesn't want to laugh in my face and can't help it. "So you think it's unlikely..."

"I think they'd love that, an explanation that easy. But... Well, put it this way; I was working during all that and you know me. I don't take my cues from anyone."

"Not even a whisper from anyone else?"

She laughs, right out loud now, not fighting it. "Nothing along those lines, gorgeous." She bends a little when she laughs, leaning away from me. The hand on her stomach is natural and I accept that, but the two fingers stretching out, trying to touch something at her side... I hook just the hem of her top and lift it. But the bruises are yellow, almost gone. The stitches are gone and the scar is dark and hard and no longer tender. "Yeah, it didn't exactly go to plan, what I was working on. You'll forgive me if I don't give up any details."

"I... I suppose you always were a fast healer."

The tip of my finger brushes the sealed wound (no longer swollen, no warmer than the surrounding skin). She winces and pushes me away. She's looking at me, studying, but as I lift my eyes she looks away. Sliding down from her stool; "Not all that fast. You'll excuse me; just going to knock back something barely legal, but I'll do it where you can't see."

Decent of her. But those wounds are older than the spike in audacious robberies. I need to stay and figure out why she would lie.

* * *

Jim

Moran's upstairs, choosing the best window to watch the street from. I told him and told him, nobody could know I'm here, but he says he's staying nonetheless. When I'm being totally honest with myself that slows my heartbeat down for the first time since I called Danielle.

I'm downstairs, myself, comfortable so long as I can still hear him moving about. Trying to set up as much as I can, but nothing I can't move in a hurry if it happens again. It's hard to settle, to concentrate. Can you blame me? All the things I don't know and I'm not in control of. Not even in my own space. I'm trying to think who was the last person we stashed here and if I sent round cleaners when the job was over. I must have done. I must have. I always do. The half-jug of fermented milk in the fridge, that was a one-off, an oversight. That's not waiting for me anywhere else in the house, no way.

It's not.

"Moran, do you want a drink?" I shout up the stairs. He's just thinking about his answer, but there's a pause. It's absolutely shocking how wound up I manage to get in that silence, even when I know he's up there, even when I know he's only thinking about it.

The reluctant (and blessed) reply comes back, "This is all a bit much like being on the job, so I'll not bother."

"Probably sensible; I don't even know what there is."

I'm just started to walk away again when he calls, "Jim?"

"Yeah?" This is the closest we've gotten to normal conversation all night. I think it's helping, actually.

"Last safe house me and you got stuck in, I locked a fella in a cupboard, do you remember?"

"Yeah."

"Did we ever let him out?"

"...He _got_ out, but it wasn't us."

"So long as it was somebody."

And that, it would seem, is all he has to say on the matter, and all he has to say in total. Leaves me to the quiet and to searching out that drink. Not that I need it or anything. It's more, actually, about passing a bit of time until something happens, because God knows I'm not getting any work done this evening.

See, I anticipate situations like this. Not usually for me, but for clients. If you're having to be rushed to a place like this, likelihood is something important and carefully planned has just gone balls-up. I always make sure I can support my people. But I guess the last guest must have been a hell of a drinker, because I'm not finding anything. I should look that up. That would be old records; they're on a different hard drive in a bank box I'll need to get cleared out tomorrow. Find out what account any money was wired from and charge them some sort of minibar bill...

Then there's a phone ringing. Not mine. Not here but... Upstairs, Moran.

"Is that her?" I call on my way up.

"Unknown number. Could be."

"Put it on speaker," I say, and give him the nod.

He hits answer and the first words we hear are venomously hissed, from midsentence, "-_fucking pick up, lads, don't have all night in here, you b- Hello?"_

Her. Very definitely.

"Dani, where do we stand?"

"Nothing here I can't handle," she says. Fumbling in the background, working at something fiddly. "You?"

"Safe."

"Don't tell me where until I'm out of this flat."

I need to get her here, find out what she knows in secure surroundings. "I'll arrange a messenger, somewhere to meet and call you back. All you have to do is make it there without getting followed."

"This number, five minutes."

I worry about her when she's having to whisper. I worry more about whoever is there with her when she sounds that fucking pissed off. If I didn't know better I'd say there was something personal going on.

Moran doesn't sound worried though. His thoughts are elsewhere. All he needs is to hear the voice and know she's alive, see? If Danielle says she can handle herself, he'll believe that.

So, as an awful thought swells in my head, one that starts with, _If this was her fault_-, he graciously interrupts, "Always end up feeling sorry for her, y'know. Always her on the far end of that conversation."

Oh, I can hardly keep the contempt from burning the words alive, "Don't feel _sorry_. This is what sociable people get. This is the destined lot of people who get closer to other people than a telephone line or a telescopic sight. She brings this shite on herself."

* * *

Sherlock

She must have left her shoes in the bathroom. This is my first thought as something sharp and painful strikes me in the side of the neck. I didn't hear her coming. But it's a very strange way to cut a throat, and it's not until there's an all-too-familiar liquid rush that I realize what's happening. Too late to fight. I don't know what it is, but it hits me fast. I try reaching behind me to shove her away, but my hand won't comply, is limp and ineffectual.

Trying to say her name, it's just sounds.

Quietly, at my ear, "I really was glad for you, that you were in recovery." I am, I still am, why is this past tense? "But I don't like people trying to use me the way you just did. That shot was most of what's left of my painkillers. I was in a lot of pain. I don't know if it'll kill you, or put you in a coma, or just get you right off your face. And I don't much care. If you do survive, get out of here. Bring anybody else after me... Well, you'll see what happens if you try it. Just stay away."

Strong hands lay my head down, stroke my hair. With concentration, I can move my eyes and follow her. There are things she takes with her, though very little. She leaves in sportswear with a small backpack on, looking exactly like someone training for a marathon. I can't move when she leaves.

It's not good. There's no euphoria, or not enough of it to cut through the pain anyway. It hurts. It's been a long time since I was afraid of what was in a needle. A long time since I've hated somebody for giving it to me.


	25. Disinfect:Decontaminate

Sherlock

Waking is slow, and cold. By some instinct I know the world outside my own head will be too bright and I don't even try to open my eyes. Not yet. I don't need to, anyway. I know that light. It has a very precise, sharp quality. It'll give you a headache even if you don't start out with one. But it belongs, here in a place of precise, sharp instruments, and precise, sharp smells. Almost like acetone, almost like nail varnish remover, but so much less personal than that. All about washing away, about destroying, eating everything away to a microbial level. Bleaches and disinfectants. I feel like someone filled my skull with them, and what overflowed ran down my throat and left it burning. The burning, then, in its turn, smouldered through the rest of me, through flesh and organs, clearing it all away, accounting neatly for the feeling of hollowness. Yes. That's what happened. I've just been cleaned, that's all. It's a bit like having one's stomach pumped, though nothing quite so simple as that.

Hospital, by the way. In case you hadn't gotten that. Maybe you need to open your eyes, see all the white and steel and aqua green before you'd know that. Hospital. Exactly where I wasn't supposed to end up again. It's not fair. It's not breaking your word, your resolution, if it's forced upon you. It's not. It's not and I tell myself that and I tell it and tell it but… I'm still exactly where I wasn't supposed to end up again.

_Can't be too hard on yourself_. People say that. I've heard them. Nobody ever said it to me, but they say that. People should shut up.

The voice that starts saying my name should shut up; it's going right through me. The hand shaking my arm should take itself off and not come back. It wouldn't even be here if it knew what an idiot I've been.

The hand becomes familiar before the voice does. There's something wrong with the voice, but the hand can't disguise itself. It's long and thin and soft with never being dirty or used. Wonder how that feels. But the hand is familiar and demands to be grabbed, now that I can move, grabbed hard and told, "Mycroft, this wasn't me. I didn't take anything. This wasn't me. I didn't-"

"Quiet," the voice says (I'm reluctant to attribute it. The hands are right but there's still something wrong with the voice). "I believe you."

Right, fine, I'll accept that wordlessly, gift horses, mouths, fine… "Really?"

"Angle of the puncture, concomitant bruising… I don't believe you did that to yourself."

Incredible acts of fraternal faith; it has to be him. Risking the punishment of the strip lighting, I just crack the nearside eye open. The blurry silhouette is compatible, all the colours are right in the right places. That'll do.

"Which leaves only the question-" he begins again.

"Was it worth it? No, I'm sorry. I don't think I found anything useful."

"I was _going_ to ask if you didn't do it who did? From what the doctors tell me it wasn't… your usual either. Sort of an ad-hoc attack, by all accounts."

Now, there are ways to deal with this. The unaccustomed instinct is to tell him the truth. Danielle, about so high, dark hair, you tried to have her killed last year? Yeah, you'll find her in the same place as before. You'd know that if you'd bothered to check your facts, rather than just assume people flee the country because they tremble at your very name. Went to see her, pissed her off and, well, the rest is history. Hm? What's that, brother dear? Rather suspicious she made this little attempt on my life just as I was forced to tell her about your theory? Well, you know I'm such a trusting person it hadn't occurred to me but now that you bloody mention it…

Danielle gets picked up, keeps her mouth shut under questioning, keeps her mouth shut under torture, is killed for not telling what she knows, nobody learns anything.

"They came at me from behind," I tell Mycroft. "I didn't see anything."

"You were found collapsed in Camden Town. Does that help, at all?"

If it doesn't he's going to keep asking. Heavens forfend he goes down there himself; the sight of that street might jog his own memory and then we're back to that other scenario. "I was," I tell him, "working my way up. From people I used to know to people who… who had a better chance of knowing whether or not there was any truth in what you were thinking."

"_Sherlock_," he sighs, like that was really a very stupid, amateurish play to make. Which it really was. Naughty me, awfully bad form. But in my current condition I don't think that's a half-bad effort, actually.

How to change the subject and get some formalities out of the way all at once, "Mycroft, did they.. give me anything?"

"Nothing. Fluids, epinephrine for lowered blood pressure. Nothing that would be worrying." A relief. A very real, palpable relief. I had already been lucky with the contents of the needle itself. A painkiller, she said, something she'd been taking to make her wounds easier to live with. Clearly a benzodiazepine of some sort, based on its immediate effect, and my reaction. My luck is in how easily absorbed those chemicals are, hence their effectiveness as painkillers; they have next to no neurological effect because very little makes it as far as the brain, and the sheer scale of the dose knocked me out too quickly for me to experience any pleasurable physiological effect. Getting away with a clean hospital visit too is about as much as I could ever ask for.

"Sherlock, if you remember anything-?"

No. No, sorry, I'd changed the subject. We had moved on.

Oh, but I do remember one thing. I remember how I ended up there in the first place. I wasn't getting anywhere with the other business. "Did you do any better than I did?"

If it's possible to hear the passing of one of those brief, barely-there smiles he is sometimes prone to, that's what I hear. In the same secret sort of way as before I open my eye again to get a look at him, telling me everything before he even opens his mouth, puffed up, looking really rather pleased himself. He only deflates to answer, and that's only when he sees me laughing.

"Well, not to rub salt in the wound…"

* * *

Jim

Danielle stayed away last night. She met my messenger so she'd know where to come. But last night she stayed with a friend. That's the phrase she used and I didn't question it. It was just so she could be sure she was absolutely clear

This morning, I've had Moran meet her a couple of streets away. Not that I don't trust her, but given the circumstances I wanted her checked over for any devices of any kind. When he comes back with her, she stands in the hall with her hands up. Says, "The clothes I met him in are still at my place, the clothes I left there in are in a pub toilet four or five miles from here, so I'm pretty sure I'm not being tracked. And I've put an old sim in a new phone so that's clean too."

"And nobody followed you?"

"Oh, gosh, you know, I forgot to even look…"

"You're not funny."

"Be calm," she says. Moran's been saying the same thing all night. I tell her the same thing I've been telling him, all bloody night. That I'm out of house and home and none of us know how safe we are, never mind the work, never mind poor Creepy Carl, who represents, by the way, a rather elaborate and experimental piece of work that we're all very much invested in and nobody more so than me. Danielle, again, like it's going to make any difference says, "Be calm."

"Don't bother, love," Moran says. He walks past us both, headed back up the stairs, to his post where he knows he belongs and he's in charge of it and knows who he is. "I've been trying, but he's inconsolable."

She rolls her eyes, "Then you're not saying the right things. We've gone over this before."

He shakes his head, surrendering, "And that's why it's your job."

And he lumbers off, one stair at a time, at his own pace. I wait until he's gone before I turn to her. "What does he mean, 'your job'?" She lifts up her hand, twirls one finger. The meaning is clear. And somehow I find myself actually turning around, like it says. "What's 'your job'? Is this some other part of the conspiracy that leads to mimicking competitions?"

"Oh, darling, those aren't competitions. I'm like the team that travels with the Harlem Globetrotters for their show games; I was never not going to get beaten. But it makes Seb feel nice."

"Why did you turn me round?"

"I didn't. You're leading me. To the kitchen, so that I can make you tea."

"That's not what I want."

"Well, you're not going to get anything stronger. For one you'll only get wound up, for another it's too early and last-though-never-least we have business to discuss."

Over the course of five tea-making minutes, certain other things are said, in a low, level voice that the kettle sometimes drowns out. That there is nothing in her place that could lead them to me or mine. That there is no direct threat right now. That our enemies have only rumour and conjecture for now. That, though she is totally in favour of this decision to bug out to a safe house, it will very likely prove to have been a purely precautionary measure.

And there is, much as I hate to admit it, something very comforting about an exhausted posh tart with a mouthful of marbles using phrases like 'purely precautionary measure'. A vintage radio voice, you listen and find yourself believing and nodding without really hearing the words, saying like a creature hypnotised, yes, yes, loose lips _do_ sink ships. Definitely going out to dig for victory. Buying Arm & Hammer toothpaste as we speak, love, yes, yes indeed…

But there is one thing still holding me to the world, like the jolt when a bomb fell somewhere and the radio just crackled for a bit, "What does he mean 'your job', though, that was my question."

She puts a mug down in front of me (and I look it over, naturally, being in a strange house and not knowing how long it's been lying around), smiles and says, "Jim maintenance."

"Keep grinning, Cheshire, we'll see you disappear. Now tell me what happened."

She does. It is a long and harrowing story and as sarcastic as she might want to be about it, I'm glad she went through all that calming business first. I don't even want to know half of this. And yet I have to listen, and very carefully, because I start to get the feeling she's censoring herself. Just some little thing she's holding back. Like, she says they used a 'lackey' to try and get to her. Which I don't exactly believe and I don't believe they would believe she'd believe it either.

"I know what you want to ask," she says, "but it doesn't matter. What matters is who sent him. And that's what I needed you calm for-"

"Why?"

"Because _I'm_ not calm about it. Took me all night just levelling out. Somebody ought to be calm." She stands behind my chair, at the back door. Pretending it's only so she can smoke. But I do her the favour of not turning round, either, not looking at her. "You probably won't even remember the name, but I do. Jon would… I mean, Seb. Seb would remember. I don't even want to tell him because-"

She can't get as far as actually saying it. I help. "Mycroft Holmes."

There's a hiss. It's probably just her letting a lungful of cancer go. Probably. "I want him not to be a problem anymore, Jim. Do you think we can do that? You'd tell me, wouldn't you, if I was taking this too personally, but I want to rip his genteel heart out and eat it without cutlery for using that poor, sad boy. Could that be arranged?"

Silly girly. Doesn't she know who she's talking to? We'll come to questions about her poor sad boy later. For now I'll just presume he's a shag she's especially fond of. That's always at least an eighty per-cent chance. No, we'll leave him for later, because for now she's in distress. You wouldn't spot this if you didn't know her. It's a boon, to someone in our sort of business, and I have similar tendencies myself. Here is my advice to all who would hear:

If you strike at people like us, aim to kill. And if you miss, and oh God if you _wound_ us, run. Because we will eat your genteel hearts, and not a knife or fork in sight.


	26. Recriminations:Forgiveness

Jim

I looked up Mycroft Holmes once before. He was boring, as I recall. As I recall, I could find next to nothing on him. And, as Moran recalls very clearly –

"You wouldn't let me shoot him."

I've moved upstairs. He's still feeling this very real need of his to watch the street in case anybody should try to join us. He wasn't for leaving this window. I came up because Danielle couldn't face being the one to tell him.

That was the first thing he's said, by the way. I told him the situation, and that we could work on it because we even had a name. Then I told him the name and that's what he said. 'You wouldn't let me shoot him'.

Lying to him, "What? I don't remember this." Hoping he'll play along, or just be thick and believe me and say it doesn't matter.

"I wanted to shoot him because of…" And here we both have to stop and think for a second; him searching out the truth in the memory, me to think what past excuse it'll have to beat to be the strangest or most disturbing. "…I think because he was ugly and skinny and didn't look pleasant." We have a winner. "Anyway, I wanted to shoot him, and you said it was too much exposure, and you said no."

"I have to say, you're reacting a lot better to this than Dani thought. She predicted a lot more rage."

"Me, mate? Rage? Never. I'm a cool, collected soul."

"Good-o…"

Forgive my lack of enthusiasm, but I've got a feeling there's more coming. For one, he's not looking out the window anymore. For another, he puts his hand into an overnight bag that's lying next to him and it turns out he wasn't winding me up when he said he was hiding Uzis at my place. I think we're alright, though. He just seems to want to hold it. It just sits in his lap and his hand's just lying on it, not round it. I don't think anybody… anybody in the immediate vicinity is in danger. Yet.

"Besides," he says, smiling, "you'll not say no this time, will you? Pull the trigger this time."

"Oh yeah, certainly. If the opportunity arises there's nobody else I'd think of g-"

"The _fuck_," he snaps, "do you mean, 'if the opportunity arises', Jim?" See? I told you there was more. Cool, collected soul, my arse, how did _I_ get roped into breaking the news? "You were there, you know what happened. I had to be dead before he would stop. He made my oldest friend give me up for it. And yeah, alright, so we got round it, but I don't have my own name anymore, and it's the principal of the bloody thing, isn't it? So who the fuck do you think you're talking to saying 'if the opportunity _fucking_ arises', Jim?"

Now, I'm not afraid of my own hitman. No way. That's not how this relationship works. Fear is a one-way process, between us. But I think very, very carefully about what next comes out of my mouth. And then I think it again. And then I listen to it in my head to check it sounds right. And then I say, "What I mean is, the opportunity to just fire the shot. Dani seems to want torments inflicted, lives flayed open, squidgy inside bits becoming pulpy outside bits, the whole nine metaphors."

"Oh," says Moran, "Well, that could be agreeable. But if the kill shot comes up-"

"All yours."

He nods, accepting that. For a while, then, we sit in silence. That's when I start looking up Holmes.

I told you before I was lying to Moran; I do remember giving the order not to shoot. See, I couldn't find much information on Mister Mycroft. And with a name like that, it's not as though I had the wrong one. My mistake was to think that meant he wasn't important. Hadn't done anything so there were no records of him having done anything. But I'm wiser, this year. Be a fecking shameful thing if I wasn't any wiser. After all, who should know better than me how important you can be and still stay off the record? _Keep_ off the record, _deliberately_, in order to be more effective in the things that you do.

Just because I can't find anything doesn't mean there's nothing there to find.

First step, research. Reconnaissance. Anybody can be locked in a room and tortured like a grabby landlord. That's not what we're after here. Dani and Moran are owed more than that. And then, of course, there's the fact that the bastard seems to think he can come after me. He might not know who I am yet, but if he suspects that I exist he must suspect what sort of a person I am, right? So he's invited this. And he clearly thinks he's ready for it.

I didn't make the first move here. I am therefore entirely and wholeheartedly within my remit to strike back in a swift and brutal fashion. I'm honour bound to do so. If I don't, I look _really_ weak, too, and I'm not having that.

See all this? See all these dozens of reasons and perfectly logical justifications? No jury in the world would convict me.

Exhibit A: trauma victim cradling firearm as though the world had ended and he'll need it to fight off the survivors, mourning the loss of his name and former self.

Exhibit B: chain smoker who's been in the shower for the last half-hour pretending it drowns out the crying and the occasional thump on the wall.

Exhibit C: pissed off man, being condemned for pursuing an unconventional living, already an unfair situation since it is the only living truly suited to his talents and tendencies.

A court, based on that alone, would let me sue the man for damages. Here in the real world that's not really an option. _Detonating_ the prick, though, that's an option. That's a very real option.

* * *

Sherlock

Mycroft did a lot better than I did. In a sad, petty sort of way I try to blame on my hospitalization (it's boring in here), I flash back to a dozen Mother's Days, Christmases, birthdays. Mycroft makes a habit of doing better. I'm trying to be relaxed about it. Tell myself this time wasn't my fault. I had a bad round. Didn't effectively predict the reactions of my opponent, so on and so forth, but the fact remains he did a lot better than I did.

And perhaps there is some kind sod amongst you with a sunshine soul. This person may very well be a nurse. I always though nurses were awful, disinterested people but as it turns out, when you're not doing it to yourself, when you're not wilfully making their work more difficult, nurses are lovely. Now that I'm clean(er), the profession would appear to have forgiven us our trespasses. So perhaps, just perhaps, there's a nursey type out there in the dark who would say something like, "Oh, don't be silly, dear, you did your best, don't talk about it like 'better'…

"…Don't be so hard on yourself."

I am truly sorry to have to disappoint this person, but the facts are very clear. I tried to gain sensitive information from a wary source and got stabbed in the neck with more temazepam than a human being who _hasn't_ spent a few years full of opiates could reasonably survive. Mycroft, on the other hand, took some very ambiguous tapes to exactly the right people, took their analysis on board and was able to make recommendations, privately and in my name, to D.I. Lestrade about where to look for his serial killer.

It's really not difficult once the noises are properly isolated. Idling car engine – he's stalking, watching the new area, doing his research. The radio, turned down, crackling – a bad reception area for radio, but not for mobile networks. What I thought was a delivery lorry of some sort was a passing train. Spatters of high-pitched chatter were not interference but groups of children, that would be still for a moment, and then walk across the field of the phone line, before dispersing. Crossing the road. A lollipop patrol.

Train lines near a school in a bad radio area. Turns out, or so Mycroft tells me, there are only four places on a map of the boroughs that fulfil the criteria. Go there, look for a stranger in an idling car. See who the children at the crossing are eyeing suspiciously. It's everything I wanted when I listened to those recordings, and everything I wanted when I handed them over to Mycroft.

He had to go, by the way. Of course he did. He'd been here, apparently, since they brought me in. That was already a large and unnecessary chunk of his life spent watching me in my unconsciousness. He has work of his own to do. Well, his own and mine; I think he took a cue from what's happened to me.

And no, I don't mean he's off to get stabbed in the neck and spend long, _dull_ hours subsequently just wanting to sleep and wake up to heave through a wave of nausea and go back to sleep again. Which, by the way, really isn't fair; it's withdrawal without the high to justify it. I'm not happy about that, and if I had nothing else to take up with Mies we would need to have words about that. But no, back to the point, when my head's not swimming, what I mean is, I think Mycroft might have gone to try the same approach. Of course, he can do better at that than me too. You see, Mycroft has access (or I assume he does, but he as good as said so) to prisoners arrested as a result of the surge in the crime rate. He can ask people who might reasonably be expected to have _experience_ of any mastermind that might exist if there is a mastermind who exists. Rather than just bet everything on his best card and just pray…

In hindsight, going after one's _best quality criminal_… There are a lot of ways in which that's a bad idea.

What I should probably do, for my own good, for the safety of the bloody country, is go somewhere very quiet, somewhere Mycroft will not look, and nobody else neither, and curl up in a corner, and just stay there. Now, that would be the act itself. There are other factors, things that are necessary to the act and which will make the act sustainable. For instance, staying curled up in a corner and not annoying anybody ever again, that could be very boring, yes? So I would need something there with me to put me beyond the reach of boredom, wouldn't I? That's logical. Yes. That's logical.

Oh, this is _not_ fair, and it's not cricket, and it is not kosher; this is everything about relapse and withdrawal and I never even got that warm safe place in between. This is desire after utter destruction and desolation and I don't like it.

I want the nurse to come back. Any of them. There have been three so far. The only thing they won't bring me is pills. That's one thing about them, they are excellent allies in recovery. They have a vested interest, after all; as I explained before, a clean patient is an easy patient. I want one of them to come back. They've seen my big important brother with his briefcase and they think I've got a real chance of happiness in this life. _Mycroft_ turned out alright.

Mycroft's making a big noise about this mastermind business because if he's right and he can prove it then the people above him won't be able to ignore him anymore. You'd have to be utterly blind not to have spotted this by now. The nurses, I forgive, because they only saw him from a distance and because I'm certain they would tell me, if they knew, not to be so hard on myself.


	27. Release:Return

Sherlock

They won't let me go. There is nothing else they can do for me, observation is showing them nothing I couldn't tell them myself and, though I have promised a hundred times to return if anything is amiss, they won't let me go. And isn't it funny, but I can't get hold of my brother, either. It's almost as though they're in some sort of conspiracy, keeping me here. No doubt it's all for my own good and all supposed to be helping, but this is exactly my point…

I can't explain it to the staff because they'll offer platitudes and reassurance. Somebody will say the word 'counselling' or worse, 'group' and there will be violence on my swift and unstoppable way to the door. And there's no one around I can explain it to who will actually understand. I'm alone, and not just because there's a private room off the main ward being paid for.

In all of this, I have found only one small respite. Provided I'm back for them to take their next set of measurements, I am free to wander at will down the corridor to the waiting room, where there is a fire door permanently propped open with a bit of breezeblock, to smoke on the fire escape. Lucky me. This has been going on for a couple of days now. It's the farthest I go. Regularly, over and over, it's the farthest I go. I'm making myself feel ill with all the smoking.

It's not working, this hospital business. I'm leaving. I'm out having a smoke (again) when the decision strikes me nice and clear, undisputable. I am leaving. They cannot legally hold me if I want to go and I'm not a danger to myself. By this afternoon, I will be back at home, and in my own bed. Nothing will be different except that there will be nobody there, and I can stop thinking about the ward sister with the wayward teenage daughter and the consultant with two ex-wives already and a new divorce in the works, and how none of them knows any of this about the others, and how that elderly lady who pushes the food trolleys round used to wear safety pins in her ear because you can still see the marks.

This one last time, after dumping the fag butt in the conveniently provided fire bucket full of sand, rather than turn straight back inside I start down the metal stairs. Not leaving just yet. There are belongings of mine up in that room. No, I'll go back for the next set of probings and numbers, and then vanish as though I was never there. First, though, I might as well wander a little farther than I have to date.

For instance, on the next metal landing, I pass another door. It's not propped open like the other, but neither is it fully shut, as though someone inside was enjoying the breeze. Or having a sneaky fag and is letting the smell circulate out. It's hard to tell, that could just be off my pyjamas. It was a doctor, y'know. Left their white coat behind and everything.

Not that that's anything to worry about. People who work in hospitals end up living in the places. Naturally you treat it like your own. It's not as if a coat like that is just going to vanish, now, is it?

Unless, of course, I swing past and slip it on. Why? Please don't ask stupid questions; I have made this very clear by now, hospitals are _boring_.

I mean, yes, every so often there's an incident like the one happening just down the hall, where there's shouting and scuffling from a ward, around a bed… That's why he left his coat, he ran to help. Somebody's just gone in to cardiac arrest.

There's a trolley abandoned in the hallway. Whoever was piloting it must have run to fetch the crash cart, which would carry slightly different stock to this more-general selection. I've seen these trolleys before, several times. They're interesting in that they are always laid out in exactly the same fashion. A veteran doctor can put their hand on whatever they might need blindfold. So that, for instance, if one were to reach into the third tray from the bottom, and knew where to count along and by how many, one could safely remove a preloaded morphine dosage, in a capped hypodermic needle, in a sealed packaging, from in between two just like it so it's not going to cause problems for anyone.

If. I mean, you could. It's a possibility.

And even if you did it, there's a chance it would be a purely academic exercise, it wouldn't mean you were planning to use it or anything like that. You might well do it just to see if you could. Which you could.

The other thing you could do is just walk past and leave all medical supplies where they are and intact. That's definitely another thing you could do.

You could just go back up to your own floor and enjoy your white coat as the only victory, hide it in the bedside locker, submit to all the tests for one last time as another nurse comes round and tells you the numbers, to which you respond, "Well, that's alright and I can go home then." She'll tell you to wait for a doctor, during which wait you pack up your few belongings, both the ones that belong to you and the ones that belong to the hospital. Enter Doctor, studies figures then, like you're an idiot who doesn't know all of those figures are completely normal, says, "Just one more night, I think." You'll get the feeling he'll just keep saying that forever and ever.

The moment he leaves, what you could then do is get dressed, shove your pyjamas in with the rest of the stuff, get presentable. Then you'd put on the borrowed white coat again and use it to leave the hospital. Nobody questions a white coat. Not even if you look half dead and you're watching to see who's suspicious and you've got your bag on your shoulder. Actually, especially not then. Student doctor, borrowing supplies for recreational use, yeah, I'd buy that…

Then you could go home and play with your new morphine needle for a while, trying to decide what to do with it.

* * *

Jim

Moving out, as previously discussed, took less than ninety minutes. Moving back home is a much longer process. And it involves far too many people for my liking and all. They have to be expendable sorts, because there's really no choice. First things first, an unknown party has to check out Danielle's place. They have to see that it hasn't been turned over. They check a list of areas she gives them where documents are kept (though the woman keeps putting her big eyes on and swearing to me there's no sensitive information there) and look of any signs of disturbance of infiltration. Then another somebody has to go in and run the place for bugs, cameras, microphones, tapped phone lines, Wi-Fi hacks, all the technical stuff. Moran, being presumed dead to those who pursue us, goes along to check the surrounding area for wandering souls and black-tinted windows. And once that little corner of the city is declared clean, Dani goes home to get dressed for dinner with her happily-married director of operations, the two strangers are replaced with two other strangers and everybody does the same job all over again at the flat which is actually important, where I live, with the bulk of my belongings still in it, where I really would very much like to get back to if it's going to be a possibility, please and thank you.

I want moving out to have been a purely precautionary measure.

It's the bulk of a day before Moran drives back up outside. And, like I'd hoped, he doesn't even get out of the car but blows the horn like a midnight minicab and I just drag the bags out to him. Drop into the passenger seat saying, "Thank fuck for that…" He laughs. Not much or loud, but he laughs. "Hm?"

"You're not used to danger, are you?"

Cheeky bloody bastard… Me? Not used to danger? I ought to be, anyway. I've been in and out of it since I was fourteen years of age. I can't believe he just said that to me. No, what he must mean, what I'm really not used to, is running and hiding. Doesn't matter what's going on or what's happening to me, that is not my automatic reaction. That must be what he means. Getting in the cupboard and staying quiet and hoping the scariness goes away, that's what makes him laugh, that's the part that isn't me. He better hope to _God_ that's what he meant.

I've been quiet too long and he develops this need to explain, "What I mean is, you're not a fighter, per se."

He doesn't even know what _per se_ means, the daft prat. He hasn't a clue what he's talking about. All I've ever done is fight. There is absolutely nothing, not one scrap of a half an idea of a thing in my life, that I did not have to fight for. And yes, we're getting to the stage now where I'm just standing at the bottom of a gentle slope and letting all the good come tumbling gently down to me, but I fought to get here. Even him, as he was so blunt in point out earlier, I had to fight to keep him. I had to send another man away to be publicly executed in his place to hold on to the Artist Formerly Known As Jon fecking Darcy.

"…Physically, I mean," he fills in, in light of this new silence.

"Moran, stop digging."

"Yes, sir."

This time it's his silence that gets to me. Gives me too long to think about his initial question, what was really being said there. "Do you mean I should _get_ used to danger? Of this sort that you were going to such lengths to define."

"_No_," he says, loud and lying. "No-no-no-no-no-no… Not what I meant. No, I've given you the wrong impression there, what I meant was-"

"Moran."

"A bit, yeah." With something like compassion, "It's not a safe and easy path you've picked, mate."

"Glory-alleluia…"

There's a look from him, but I miss it. Sort of glad to, as well. Gives me a chance to change the subject. Get off talking about business and get on to… well, business. "That house we just came from, we're shutting it down. Used it too many times already, neighbours are starting to twig. Should have seen the blinds getting twitched when Dani arrived yesterday, it was like interference on the telly, whole street was going. Close it up, get it sold. I'll start looking for a replacement. As of today, soon as I get back and set-up, we're closed to new work. No requests. We have only two priorities; Holmes and… and this murderer business… This car's safe, isn't it?"

"There's still an RF scanner in the boot, so I think we'd know if it wasn't."

"Well, yeah, the Creep, then."

"You don't sound too happy about him."

Of course I am. Wouldn't have done it if I wasn't sure about it, would I? "He just needs upkeep and contained. Keep giving him his little challenges, he'll be fine, serve us well. I only mentioned him because we can't forget him, with everything else that's going on."

"I've seen the fella, Jim; he doesn't lend himself to being forgotten."

"_Sidelined_, then. Since when are _you_ the pedant here? He'll be on the back-burner, but he still needs attention, that's all I was saying. Holmes is going to be a fecking nightmare, so it would be easy to leave the Creep to his own devices, if we were careless like that, which we're not."

"He knows too much for that, doesn't he?"

"Oh, God, Moran, please just drive the car."

I don't regret it. Because it wasn't a mistake, so I don't regret it. Regret isn't something I usually bother with anyway; didn't get where I am now looking over my shoulder. I just need to get home and get set back up. Once I'm back to work I'll know what to do. Get a good long think about it. That's the one thing that's been missing. Sit down, take all the factors that need to be considered, and figure out how to make them work for one another. Take disparate fragments and turn them into a useful whole. There's a way to make all this come out in my favour. I can't see it yet, but I will.


	28. Purify:Taint

Jim

Upon returning to the comfort of my dear, dear home, and having quietly apologized for abandoning it while Moran was lagging behind with the bags, I learned two things.

One, I'm not as good at bugging out as I'd been thinking. Two, the Creep's not even as patient as we had previously thought.

I left the scrambled line plugged in. Threw the handset out, naturally, but never took the cord of the base out of the wall. Moran, who probably doesn't _know_ he has a death wish, told me chirpily that I'd know for next time. Like I say, he was looking murdered, no doubt. Should have a word with him about that when I'm not the one that wants to do the murdering. Anyway, that phone is _designed_ for privacy and to be untraceable. The line runs to an exchange where it gets bounced quite literally to Kathmandu, where another exchange makes the signal cellular and… somebody explained all this to me once. But it was a while ago, and the young South-East Asian lady in question had a knife to her throat. Moran, in fact, was holding it, and above her head I watched him as word-by-word of her jargon his eyes glazed over. It was fascinating. I suppose I wasn't listening to her as closely as I might have. But it works. I absolutely trust that it works and she didn't just sell me a phone and screw me over. After all, she had a knife to her throat.

He hasn't left any messages, is what I'm supposed to be saying here, phone doesn't work like that. But he's been calling. All the calls are logged when I get back on my own network.

Which is when I really know I'm home, by the way. All the rest is just stuff and things that I own, which is well and good, but it's not until I sit down and see my own main computer greet me, my own network, everything intact, everything I might have had to rebuild if things had gone more wrong, it's not until that that I really feel _home_. Like when you come back from a foreign holiday and finally get tea the way you like it again, that big sigh sitting down in your own chair; that feeling.

I know I keep getting off the point, but I really can't emphasize how nice it is to find my own slippers under my own desk.

Anyway, sorry, never mind that. Murderer. Creep. Him. He's been calling. Repeatedly. The calls get closer and closer together. They start out sane; one at lunchtime, I'm not in, so one after teatime. Then one the next morning. Another one at eleven, twelve-thirty, one…

Moran sees me staring at this, then comes over to see. "And you're absolutely sure," he says, "he doesn't know where you live? Because it's not too late to move back out."

"No," I say, too fast and not caring. "No, he doesn't know. So is it still one-way traffic, is it? Should I still fail to reply?"

I'm taking the piss but he looks at me like I've lost it. "_Yeah_. More than ever. You call him back now it looks like you've been all breathless and you're running to the bloody phone, doesn't it, mate?"

He leans past me, looking at the times. Addressing the side of his studious face, trying not to let the noise of the gears going in his shiny little head drown me out, "You had a very clingy client once and you don't like talking about it."

"Client? Me? I was in the army right up until I met you, remember?"

"I believe you, Sebastian…"

"Anyway, looking at this he'll probably call you in about three minutes anyway."

"And I should sound dead casual and like I've hardly thought of him."

"Shouldn't be too much of an act to put on, James…"

Well, I suppose I ought to have something ready for him, then. I put my mind to it, and Moran gets bored. Asks if I want coffee. There's still no machine, but I tell him yes. Just out of interest; I want to see what he does. Keep him amused while I think of something to keep Creepy Carl amused while Mycroft Holmes keeps me amused. Me? Oh yeah, I'm a plate-spinner.

It's really not difficult. Considering I gave him Dirty Harry already, he should have been able to keep himself happy. I suppose that's why it worries me that he's kept calling. That could be a problem. Burn that bridge when I get to it, though.

For now, I look again over my notes on the aforementioned-Chosen-One, blessed is he amongst coppers, chosen out by chance over a roulette table. It's the case of a lifetime if he plays it with any wit, though I doubt he will. Not even I can be that lucky in a casino. I read again all of that stuff about the man's ill father, and about his children, the eldest of whom is a boy and (all the information I have) 'at uni in the city'.

But with a name like Lestrade he shouldn't prove too difficult to pinpoint.

Actually, it takes about ten and a half minutes, because that's what I tell Moran when the phone rings. "What did I tell you?" he says, and I tell him how much more than three minutes it was. There's a silence, and I don't need to be looking at his perplexed, frustrated face to know he's asking himself how he's used up all that time and gotten no closer to even boiling the kettle.

"Are you alri-?" I begin.

"Just answer your fucking phone."

Because I'm a grown man and not the camp comic relief on a bad sitcom, I resist the urge to make the _'Ooh'_ noise. The one with three syllables where you have to, physical imperative, lift up your hands like a begging dog and make it all look as mincey as possible. I resist. I really, really resist.

Then, dead calm, dead nonchalant, I answer my fucking phone. "Hello?"

"Where have you been?" Ah, Jesus, a few days holiday from that voice and suddenly it's fresh all over again. It goes up my back in waves and settles at the place where he put his hand on my shoulder that first time we met.

You'll notice, though, if you're not busy trying to coax your skin out of whatever corner it's crawled into, that there was no 'hello' there. There was not, even, any form of address. He's very edgy. It's making him rude.

I lead by example, by my absolute relaxation. "Has there been some sort of problem, my friend?"

After a flustered pause, "No. No."

"Then what can I do for you?"

A challenge. I already know. I have everything he needs set out in front of me. But he can ask for it. I'm waiting for him to ask for it. Sounding lost, sounding small, "Where should I be?" he says.

"Get a pen and paper."

* * *

Sherlock

Can't believe I brought morphine into the flat. I swear… I get through a whole hospital stay completely clean, completely safe, barely so much as a bad twinge, and on my _way out_, for the love of God, I pick up this stupid, ugly little thing to _bring home_. Bringing it without a second thought into a space I have kept cathedral-pure since I first arrived here. It's not a breach of sanctuary if you take the mob by the hand and invite them inside. Christ, the _stupidity_ of it, the blind, stumbling stupidity is just bloody incredible. All this time and now, like a spy who is shot and screams in their own language, here it is. This is my native tongue.

Of course, the flat is just an arbitrary space. It makes no difference whether I brought it here or went somewhere else and fired it before I came back. It doesn't. Objectively, that is. Subjectively, if I had been sitting here on this sofa, and had seen myself coming in with the needle I would have shoved self and needle both back out the door and shot all the bolts and piled furniture against it to keep this away from here.

Objectively, what has actually happened is that it's only now, too late to save myself, that I am sitting on the couch, and the still-wrapped needle is sitting on the end table. It's not even in the corner of my eye. That doesn't mean I can't see it.

Morphine is an especially relaxed sort of high. Anyone who's ever had to have it in hospital can tell you that. Morphine can take you down out of crucifying agonies and make it stop hurting. With some drugs, you just stop caring about the pain, but with morphine… that's it, it's gone. And when there's no pain to kill it will work its way over all of you, and make the tips of your fingers and toes tingle away into numbness. If you lie very still you can feel movement. A rising and falling, as if your soul could breathe, or a sensation of horizontal travel, like lying in the path of a warm, gentle breeze. Meditation can take you there too, but it's a bore. With morphine, you don't have to ask for that release, and it doesn't ask if you want it or not.

If you knew how good it was you wouldn't be shaking your head. I can only talk about it but if you knew, if…

It's temporary. It's temporary, it's temporary, it's temporary, it's temporary, it's temporary, it's temporary, it's temporary, it's temporary. This isn't working. It's temporary. This isn't working. Temporary is better than nothing. It's small. It's not a high like the old high. It's just a little corner, a little dark place. I'll crawl in, and crawl out again fresh and rejuvenated. That's all. It's a night's sleep, that's all. (It's temporary, but what does that matter?) This isn't working, so far, and the morphine is guaranteed to work, even it is only temporary. It's a chemical. A chemical must, by nature, work. It's reactions are set. Variable, yes, but essentially set. I know what it's going to do to me and…

And there's a knock at the door.

Mycroft. I'm starting to get used to this. So I get up, and first I go to the window… But maybe he has a driver and a PA out there and maybe they'll see and I'll never hear the end of it. So in the end, I put the needle in the cupboard under the sink. I'll go back and throw it out later.

Then draw a glass of water, to clear my throat. By which stage, Mycroft is knocking again and really, I appreciate the polite little effort, but if I'm getting used to it, he should be too. I call, "It's not bolted."

Almost immediately, I know it was a mistake; the hand on the door handle is slow, tentative. The door only half opens, and then someone is looking for where my voice could have come from. I say nothing. Ready to duck if something other than a human hand creeps in at the door, ready to get a knife out of the drawer if it comes to it.

It is, however, a human hand. A black one, with familiar damage at the just-seen edge, that makes me relax and say, "Over here."

Donovan edges in, looking round for me. It strikes me almost every time we meet I'm just sparking up a cigarette. At least this is the first one she's witnessed that I really need, that is to steady a tapping finger, a familiar shudder in the muscles. What must she think of me? Matter of fact, first thing she says is, "You alright?"

"Just a bit shaky."

"Maybe should've stayed in hospital." Oh, that's what she meant. There's still a small plaster over the puncture on my neck, though the bruises are starting to yellow away at the edges. "I've been over there already."

"Sorry. It was something a snap decision. Did they give you this address?"

"Lestrade did. He wants to say thank you. That noise sample stuff, it was a real break for us."

I don't ask her why he didn't come himself. Think about it; they never did call me back. I am out, and they'll be looking for any involvement on my part. Monitoring him. Hence, our go-between. Much as I hate to admit it, her low status is working in our favour. They don't miss Sally Donovan when she just nips out of the office for, oh, two or three hours. I don't ask her what I already know. Instead, I tell her, "I'm sorry you're stuck in the middle of this."

Donovan shakes her head. "Don't be." She stands still a second longer. Then, without any trigger I'm aware of, goes to sit down at the table, shrugging off her jacket.

"So what's happening now?" I'm staying by the ashtray, by the way.

"They're looking at the areas that match. Although any time you get in touch with them they're eating…"

"They're… what, _patrolling_?"

She nods, "They're a bit obvious to be stake-outs."

Oh, for God's sake. Give all that hard work over to my brother, go and get stabbed in the neck trying to repay him in kind, languish in a hospital bed and they flood all possible opportunities with face-stuffing prats who might as well wear their old uniforms and drive around in bloody panda cars… Honestly, I can't be the only one seeing this, could I? You'd cry, sometimes, wouldn't you, seeing it all…

"Then he's gone."

"What?" she says.

Like I should have to explain this. A very careful operator who has escaped notice, or at least identification, at his two prior scenes. They had him while he was weak. There were options, but somewhere in the middle of it all they had him. And they marched in waving a big flag that said, 'the poleece iz heer' and blowing trumpets and now… "And now he's gone."

Then, while that's sinking in with her, while the nicotine is starting to hit, the afterthoughts come. It's just nebulous dread at first, but it takes form, solidifies, gives itself features and details, becomes a probability more than an instinct.

"Gone," I tell her, "and probably rather annoyed, after such a close shave."

"You're saying it won't scare him off?"

"Not even a little bit. He'll be out to teach you all a lesson, more than likely…"


	29. Uncertain:Sure

Two days is a long time to wait around. With no more evidence than we already had there's less and less hope by the minute, more and more like all we can do is wait for the mistake. Which shouldn't be an option. A simple matter of patience, fine. Some choice granted in the killer's communications, difficult, but it could be dealt with. But this act of just _waiting_… Pretending to work, to look for solutions, just so nobody has to look responsible for the fact that there is no choice but to let a murderous sociopath do his bloody thing, and even then there are no guarantees. Two days is a long time to live with this.

I had thought the sheets might have been a saving grace. The traces, that the killer lay on them. Thought that might help.

But Lestrade was able to call me from his office line yesterday. Just briefly, just to let me know, that because the hotel guests had slept there before they were murdered, and because none of the household sheets on Friday Hill had been changed very recently, there was, and I quote, 'no time-efficient way to isolate a single genetic print from hair or fibre, and they won't test for sweat.'

I said, "Sorry, that's 'won't'. As in the contraction of will and not?"

"Yeah."

"Not 'can't', that wasn't what you meant."

"No. They can never make it stand up in court, so they're not going to take that chance."

"So they'll just take the chance on not catching him. Right. Sensible. No. Explain that to me again?"

He couldn't. And then he asked if I wanted to meet him for a drink. Subtitles were saying the nasty men at work weren't letting him join in anymore. My instinctive reaction was 'no', phrased differently, calling on God and with more expletives. Out loud, I made excuses about my current attempts at sobriety, the temptations of the hospital. The ones I didn't have to bring home with me and wish I hadn't.

But then the call was over and the two day wait resumed. Two days, and I had to lock the bedroom door on myself again. Nothing to do with sickness or even any real physical craving. Just the temptation, just what was under the kitchen sink, and just not being able to throw it out.

Sleep, maybe you can imagine, was difficult. It usually is, when you're waiting, and it is when you're sore, and it is when you want something and you're trying not to want it. I've been aware of myself most of the night, so close to consciousness that even when the clock does skip ahead thirty or forty minutes at once, it feels like I've done no more than blink. Not only that, but it becomes increasingly more difficult to move, even to think, and everything slips away in a haze, with me lying still as a stone at the centre of it.

It's the fastest I've been able to make the seconds move since before the hospital. Hellish, yes, but like so many other things it does the job. The pain is no more nor less and moves quicker.

After hours of this, I am sailing wonderfully close to the dark again, when the phone rings.

You could have timed that. If you'd been watching me and been so inclined, you could have counted the bloody thing in. So I'm not surprised, and I'm not annoyed, and all I do is roll out my hand to the bedside and bring it to me.

"Yes?"

"Sherlock?"

Donovan. Sounding tense, lowering her voice. Forgive me for thinking the word 'promising'. "Definitely the person you called."

"I… I'm not sure what's going on. Hazell's here so I can't talk to Lestrade, but I think he wants you brought in."

"But Hazell's there so-"

"But so are the news-crews, just arriving, so we've got another ten minutes of his company maybe before he goes to grimace at them."

"News-crews. You're not at Scotland Yard?"

"No." She doesn't explain any more than that. We both know that that means.

"How many?"

"Seven." Bringing the total to twenty-one. It shouldn't be possible. That scale should not apply to this sort of crime. And we were waiting for it, and only on the off-chance he's made a mess of it. I was waiting. I was lying in bed and I was waiting for it. Three strikes in as many weeks, slightly less even and _twenty-one_… Seven last night… Donovan interrupts this base, circular thinking. "Can I give you an address?"

"Yes. Of course."

That's exactly what she gives me. Street name and building number. An address. Not a word about what sort of a place it is. That's unusual. Her culture, the way she speaks, everything I know about her, that sort of precise detail doesn't match it. She would be casual. She would leave me dependant on the knowledge and kindliness of cab drivers to get me there.

She could have just told me it was one of the halls of residence for Goldsmith's. 'Batavia' would have been a helpful addition. That's what I find out when I get there.

I have the cab let me out at the corner. Down the street, Hazell is suitably distracted, and has an audience of lenses and microphones paying attention to him. Still, bit rude to just walk in the front door behind him. So I go round the back. Start making note of the back office, where there would have been a guard, I'm presuming overnight, and where was he when all this happened, who was patrolling. Close-quarters living. Someone must have seen or heard, but if so then why wasn't I called until after ten in the morning, and…

And then it all stops. Because at the back of the building where I am are the gathered students and staff all waiting to be asked these questioned, the shaking and smoking and crying, being protected so far from the cameras but that won't last long. And away from them, protected from them, is a boy not all that much younger than me, wrapped in an orange blanket, and his father is hugging him.

Before I know it, Sally Donovan is at my shoulder, looking past me at the same thing. At Lestrade, and… "His name's David."

Well, yes. Growing up with a French surname, you have to give the boy a Dave or a Jim or a Harry to lean on, don't you?

"Sherlock?" she's saying. I know she's saying. I just can't answer her. There's a man over there holding his pale, shaking son. No more or less than this. Donovan is saying my name and it's as much as I can do to turn away and reach for a cigarette.

Mycroft. Fucking. Holmes.

Two days. Two days and all I have on him is a very polished, very corporate-portrait type picture which tells me _nothing_ and records from eight different government departments with his name on them which _don't actually record_ anything. Seriously. The name is like a virus. It appears and everything else just vanishes around it. MOD, SIS, Home Office, all of it. The name and nothing else.

I'm not ashamed to say that I depend on records. This one little bit of stumping, this one little block, is not making me ashamed of that, because it's the only time I've ever come across it. There are always records. Even if you have never been to the doctor's, you were born, and I have your birth certificate. You've never taken out a credit card, I will get your mobile phone bill. You exist, you live, therefore there is record but there is no record. If Dani and Moran couldn't assure me that they'd seen the man in person, I'd think he was some sort of elaborate construct; a scapegoat maybe, a way for the government to fob things off. The buck stops with a man who isn't real.

Mycroft Holmes is Roger O Thornhill. I would have come to that conclusion, thought I was very smart, and walked away from all of this. But I know he exists. I _know_ he exists. I know it. He is there to get and he will be got.

Nobody's rushing me, y'know. I've never had such patient clients in all my life. Never had two onto the same target before and they're ideal. They don't pester, they don't wonder if I got their call… Nothing. Moran hasn't mentioned it once. He keeps an eye, but he'll wait. He's happy to wait. He'll look at me and know when I've got something. Dani's mentioned it a couple of times, but not in a pushy way. Making conversation. She's starting to stink of her cigarettes, but that's the only outward sign.

No, nobody's rushing me on this. Maybe that's why I can think of _nothing_ else. Can do _nothing_ else. Can work on _nothing_ else. The Creep hit where I told him to hit, and did it with skill and panache and I don't even care because this man exists and I cannot lay hands on him and it is not normal. The only difference is that, for once, nobody keeps trying to tell me to take a break.

So I'm working at it again this morning, and coming towards eleven o'clock, as ever, I hear the door open and close. Still haven't sorted out about any kind of signal. To indicate my presence and solicit whoever is in the hall's, "Hello?"

"S'only me." Danielle. Sounds tired, and relaxed. Good signs, both. She takes her time too. Hangs up her jacket and comes in wafting a mens deodorant. So things, I know, are going well with the married man. No honest, thoughtful mistress wears perfume. Don't ask how me and her ended up having that conversation, but it was unexpectedly interesting.

Anyway, she comes along, and I hear her in flat shoes (so she was indeed out last night), yawning just outside the room. Thinking, _c'mon, y'bitch, ask why there's no coffee. _I'll be wonderful, really good fun, when she asks me that question. I'm going to slit her up the middle and stretch her out to either side so everything inside gleams when she asks me that fucking question.

Of course the cow comes in with two Starbucks cups in a cardboard holder and denies me that.

She sees what I'm working on when she brings it to me. "Still no luck?" she says. There is just a trace of worry. We're at the stage where, any other task, any other job, she'd pull out the plug of the computer and escort me with tortures of contact, with the hairs out of her hairbrush, to somewhere where I'm supposed to relax. The usual definition is somewhere where I can't work.

I say, "No."

She says, "Not to worry. You'll get there. You always do." Sounds so sure of that, too. Moran said something similar at the start of this. They have so much faith. They think I'm so trustworthy, when it comes to this business. They're not rushing me, they're just so… sure.

I swear I'm not changing the subject, "I take it luck hasn't been a problem for you, then?"

She settles on the couch across the office. "I hate roulette. It's so random. I kept beating him. It was _not_ good for what I'm trying to build. But it's his game, so what could I do?"

"That's that unicorn of yours kicking in."

"They didn't know the Creep was working as we spoke, so I'm not entirely up to date. They were stumped, at last report. As good as admitted Carl's holding all the cards."

"Good."

"Thought that would please you." She sits there a while. After that, cuts her eyes over, "Thought it would please you a bit more than that, if I'm honest."

"Really, I'm very happy we've found yet more proof that cops are thick, but Christ the Lord, Danielle, this silky-haired fucker's the invisible man. Actually, no, he's worse, because the invisible man was a scientist before he was invisible, and there would be records about him, and his education, and his training, and where he worked and… Where is all that? Where am I not looking?"

"You haven't missed it. It's there. We'll get there."

Yeah. We. _Plural_. Including her. "What about you? Where's your poor sad boy with the connection to him? You only told me you _could have_ killed him."

She shrugs, tosses her hair. "Never looked into it." Says that like there's no more to it and she doesn't expect to be questioned any further on this topic. Well, that might work on pathetic men with too much job pressure and understanding wives, I can see how it might. But me, I just think that's an interesting reaction.

"Where's your poor sad boy, Dani? Asked you a question."

"I answered it," she breezes. "Not a Foggy Nelson, Jim. He's just a runner, anyway, he's not an option."

"He knows him. He's seen him, in all his glorious existence. He is a contact, and you are denying me-"

"That's why I'm not complaining about you taking forever to find one man we could have had killed this time last year when at least the fucking sun was out, so kindly do not push me to say anything less charitable than I absolutely must."

"He tried to use you," I tell her. And _tell_ her, actually _tell_, in case she hasn't noticed, because it baffles me. "Whoever he is, whatever reason he had for doing it, he was going to use you to get to me."

Another shrug. "He's not an option. All you need to know. We can argue about this, but you will get nowhere and we will not find the one-man-government department and-"

"Say that again…"


	30. Spymaster:Eyewitness

Jim

"Say that again."

"Alright, love, no need to get wound up."

"It's not a threat, Danielle, just say it again, the last thing you said."

She has to think about it. Got too wound up herself then, thinking she was in danger. "…One man government department?"

Oh, fucking _bingo_. Got you now, you invisible bastard, got you by the fucking scruff. I point over at Dani and then to the door. "Get out."

Crisp, asking me if I want to correct myself, "I beg your pardon?" Fear of threat didn't last long did it. And no, no, I don't want to correct myself, dear, sorry.

"Get out _now_, is that any clearer?"

I've got work to do. She'll hover. She'll be waiting. Won't mean to, but she will, and it'll put me off. So much as I don't like sending her out of the room with her hackles up (that's a lie, by the way), that's what I have to do right now. She's got work to do herself anyway. Her and Moran both, and they've been neglecting it. They have other things on their minds. I've been allowing it. Shouldn't have done that; spare the rod and spoil the sociopath. So if she could graciously be in the next room for a couple of hours thinking about a steal-to-order that can wait no more than another week, that would be _excellent_ just now.

I'll make her a drink later on, something like that. After all, it was her little rant that solved this.

Because one man does not a department make.

My problem with Holmes was that he was everywhere at once without ever actually _being_ anywhere. It seemed to me to be a unique position. But that's only because I've never come across it before. And look at the hours of tireless slog it took to even get that far. Oh, this is gorgeous. This is a stroke of accidental genius. Really must remember to get a look at all this later on, try and break it down so I'll be able to do it again someday, because flashes of inspiration like this must be so, so rare.

I've got everything I need ready and waiting. Already had people hack all the personnel records I've been studying. Really, it's just a case of cross-referencing. Not looking for Mycroft anymore, nah, I'm finished with him for now. He's in a mantrap and will stay where he's been put until I'm ready for him. Because I've got him.

SIS Associated Persons, HMAF Consultancy Records, FCO Trusted Agencies, every letter in the alphabet and every piece of jargon, it's just a case of running it all together and seeing where the repeats happen.

And then, like doubled up trading cards, they appear. One by one as they are picked out, I stack them up in print-outs on the desk. Nothing more on them than I have on Holmes; name and portrait and that's all. But what else do I need, really? I wait and a couple more pop up. I wait.

In the end there are fourteen of them. Not a one of them worth looking at. They are, for the most part, carbon-copy jobsworths in grey suits. Except for one game old bird with a pink rinse, but when it comes to the British Government, nothing would surprise you anymore. Fourteen. Name and picture, I take the print-outs and put them up on the wall behind the desk. Then, as an afterthought, draw the blinds down. Just in case. But there they are, by the yellow light of the desk lamp. This is your department, Dani my dear. _Thirteen_-man department, plus one bright-eyed old bitch I instinctively worry about.

That was easy. Genius always is, and didn't I tell you it was genius?

The question now, and the one where I could use another bright and sudden light of new knowledge, is _what_ fucking department?

Granted, I've done no research on Mycroft's newfound friends, but I bet they're all like him. Who are these people, planted everywhere, without existences? Sanctioned by everybody and known by nobody. God, if only _I_ could be sanctioned by everybody. I wish they were a big proper department. Somebody could slip my name onto one of those lists and I'd be having a whale of a time. But with just fourteen of them, I've got a feeling they'd notice me.

While I study them, I set up another search. I'm not really expecting results, if I'm honest. I'm running their names through the usual checks, and all the data I've gathered of late. I've been working hard, remember, and hard work brings rewards. A lot of stuff has been filtering back to me. Until now I haven't had time to go over it properly. What the computer turns up, I'm not sure I would have noticed it even if I had.

Eight out of the fourteen names appear. This goes right back to last year, to a file I got off an American mercenary about the death of an African dictator. And yes, that sounds a lot more glamorous than it really was. Next to or near or in the vicinity of seven of those eight occurrences, the same word turns up. 'Diogenes'.

There's a professor at Trinity with a dog called Diogenes. That's probably not the connection, but somebody asked him once what the name was all about. He said it was what the academe was all about; over-intelligent sods refusing to talk to each other, pulling small-minded stunts, and scratching their fleabites.

I pick up the work phone. While I'm talking, turn around and look at the pictures again. Two rows of seven; something about that is annoying me.

The gent I'm calling is called Xkwisit. It's probably not the name his mother gave him, but for now, that's all you need to know. So Mr Xkwisit answers and I ask him, "Do you know whose voice this is?" He does. "And do you know the way you've got that thing for married women?" He does, yeah. "And do you remember the woman that was married to that East End face and you came begging?" He remembers that and all. He's a good lad, that way. "And do you remember how you told me you'd do just about anything except for Central Government?"

"I remember," he says. "But I'm standing by that one. Tell the fucker, I don't care. Take my chances with him over the spooks any day."

Well, that's fair. That's Mr Xkwisit's decision. He's entitled to it. I can't _force_ him to go diving for a certain very alluring keyword, now, can I? "Okay," I tell him.

Him, sounding deeply suspicious, "Okay?"

"Yeah, absolutely okay. I'll look elsewhere." I won't. He's the best on my books or I wouldn't have bothered calling him. "Look, if you change your mind, it's big money and it's all yours. You have a number for me, don't you?"

Still sounding very shocked, "Yeah… Yeah, I do."

Cheery as I can be, "Bye then!" Hang up. Dial another number.

"Hello?"

"Moran, I need you to go visiting for me."

I can't force Xkwisit to help me. I'm in a flat, far from him, rearranging the faces on the wall. Two rows of seven was wrong. Departments have hierarchies. I pick an elderly gent who was too grumpy to pose properly for his portrait and put him at the top. Under him, the flamingo woman and a man with a face you could cut cheese on. That's enough, isn't it? One general, two lieutenants, and then the foot-soldiers. Isn't that how organizations like this work? No, I'm too far away and far too busy to force Xkwisit into hacking anything.

Moran can do it, though.

The word is Diogenes, and there is no other word.

* * *

Sherlock

Lestrade is otherwise engaged. Donovan talks me through the crime scene. This time the killer's entry into the building is a factor for investigation. Past the guard at the back, and avoiding the regular nightly patrols in the area, it shouldn't have been possible. We'll come to that. Another factor is the distribution of the victims. The mews here are broken into apartments that sleep seven. Six of the victims were in one flat, with one young man left alive. The last victim was from next door.

After the family in their hotel suite, and the three housemates out at Friday Hill, I'm starting to question the way the killer moves around these scenes, how he manages the murders and the ritual disposal without discovery. How he even knows they're all asleep.

But we'll come to that too.

Because there is one more important thing in all of this. This time, there is a witness. She is the only student still in the building, in her room across the hall from the murder scenes. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, sobbing, as one might well imagine and understand. Holding a cup of tea in trembling hands like she doesn't dare lift it up to her lips. I can see all this because the door is slightly ajar. I'm not spying. There's just nowhere else to go. The men and women in white boiler suits have already arrived, filling the corridor with equipment and blue lights, creeping along the edges of everything with tweezers in one hand and evidence bags ready in the other.

"We call them the aliens," Donovan tells me. Not hard to see where that comes from, but I appreciate her wit, her attempt to include me when we're both stuck on the periphery. I am, however, lingering by the open door, not-spying and I motion for her to be quiet.

Inside, a deliberately-softened voice is saying, "In your own time, Emilia. Just tell us exactly what happened."

"Well, um," is the start. Not exactly promising. "I was late getting in. I was at the library." There's a very slight change in the tension; nobody in that room believes what she just said. "I _was._ I have essays due next week, I was at the library, I'd been there since lunchtime. Anyway, it closed at midnight, so it was probably half-twelve when I got back here? Everybody was… I don't know, in their rooms anyway if they weren't sleeping. And I heard somebody in the hall, heard them rattling a door handle. I thought it was Mark from just across because he was at the library too and he's always locking himself out. So I stuck my head out. And it wasn't him. I didn't know the person. I asked if he was alright, and he said he'd come to see David, and it was important so it didn't matter that it was late. Funny accent, funny way of talking English, y'know? And that was it. I didn't ask what he'd come about. If it was important I wasn't going to pry, was I? So that was it… Oh, no, it wasn't. It was… It was too weird. He asked me if I was a lion, because he was a lion too… But I didn't understand, I didn't know what to say to him. But that, definitely, that was it. I was probably in here eating bloody toast while he was…" The sobbing takes over here and the story ends.

It was a good story, wasn't it? Entertaining, I mean. It might as well have been, because a story is the only thing it is.

Donovan, who has accidentally overheard all this too, seeing she's standing right next to me, wells up with sympathy and understanding, murmuring, "Jesus Christ, poor girl."

"She'll be fine when the delusion goes off her. Pity you won't have her testimony."

"What?" Inside the room, they are trying to make her describe the killer. He was, she says, big, and the corridor was dark. It wasn't, though; the lights are on a motion sensor. "Are you saying she's lying?"

"No, of course not. Don't be so callous. She believes every word she's saying." Donovan stares, waiting for an explanation. I nod across the hall at the two open doors. "Which of those rooms had just one body in it this morning?" She indicates. "Female?" She nods. "Your eyewitness is the lonely corpse."

You only have to listen to Emilia's story to know she saw nothing. She hardly even remembers last night. I don't doubt for a second she really was at the library; I just wonder what she took to get her from lunchtime to closing time. She gets back, crashing. Things are quiet, though I doubt each and every of her flatmates was in bed. Outside in the hallway, a stranger is working at the door of one flat, and the seventh victim arrives at the door of the other. Says, "Can I help you?" and is told that he's here to see David. Emilia heard all of this, that's all. That's why she can't offer a description. The 'lion' comment she found so baffling probably referred to something in the corridor. It isn't her fault, not really.

"How am I supposed to tell them that?" Donovan says, more to herself than me.

I shrug, "Just tell them. Leave them no choice but to look into it. The evidence will bear it out. You just can't let that girl get to court; any case could collapse on her."

I suppose _ultimately _we have to be glad of Emilia's trauma. She lived to tell the tale, unlike the girl who actually experienced it. And it explains the presence of a seventh victim at all. It breaks the MO, you see; this killer clears whole rooms. If he'd gone into that other flat, it would have been to do another seven. But there are very few criminals so devoted to their form that they won't bend the rules to silence an eyewitness. I've yet to come across even one.

"What about the main scene?" I ask. "Six dead. Who found them?"

"Seven," she says, like I should have got this easily. "The other flatmate."

"Was there and asleep and left alive?" She nods. Still looking I should have… Oh. "David Lestrade. Damn."

I knew the choice of building bore that connection, but the choice of room? And why Lestrade, and _how_, where is the killer getting this information? Damn.

In the middle of all this, my phone rings. Mycroft. Anybody else I would ignore but given the circumstances, given what's going on and… To hell with the excuses; I excuse myself and go to answer it on the quiet rear stairwell.

He doesn't even let me say hello.

"Sherlock, where are you?"

"Damned serial killer. There's been another one. Different too, turning too bloody personal and-"

"This is more important. Come home at once." That tension in his voice, that tone of an order. He knows orders don't work. He's known that for years. Mycroft never gives orders because he expects them to be obeyed. He gives orders when he doesn't know what else to do.

"What is it, what's happened?"

"Please, come back."

Not without more. I don't mean to torture him, but I need to know something before I leave here or I'll end up running. "I'm needed here."

"Sherlock, who poisoned you?" He says this very quickly. It's all the explanation I'm getting. "I'm fully aware you didn't want to tell me and I tried to respect that but you might not be safe, where you are."

He really is in distress. Really is worried. About me, yes, but… But his voice rises and falls, and I'm listening closely enough to know why. He's in my flat, my tiny flat. Going back and forth past the bathroom, where the tiles amplify him. He's pacing, then, back and forth. Worried about me but… "The person you're talking about… they don't know that I've moved. You're alright there, so will you kindly stop wearing a track in the carpet?" He obliges, stops. But I get the feeling from his silence I haven't done much for his feeling of personal security. "I'll be right there."

Very briefly I run back to Sally Donovan. She wants to know what's going on and why I have to go. I have nothing to tell her, except that she really must let me know when and where the eyewitness is taken for autopsy. Then I leave for home.

* * *

[A/N - Halfway already... Tempus fugit or what? Hope you're still with me, still enjoying, and apologies in advance for any nastiness and heartbreak that might be on the way.

- Sal]


	31. Fear: Dread

Sherlock

I have one clear memory of my brother displaying any sort of fear. It is, I believe, my first memory. Our father had just died. I remember nothing of him or of the black-clad rites that almost certainly followed. I remember a host of relations and supposed family friends, few of whom I had known before, fewer of whom I have ever seen since, descending on the house. They were all much, much sadder than I was. I affected greater sadness so as to match them, but their attentions became unbearable. And so it came to pass that I went looking for my brother, who no doubt had gotten as bored with all this hush and stillness as I had and had gone out to play. I brought the frog.

There was a frog. We built a habitat in a plastic microwave tub and left it next to the pond and it was the frog and it was ours. That's secondary. Don't know why I felt the need to… Anyway. Brought the frog.

Couldn't find Mycroft anywhere. Being small, my world was small, and I hadn't looked very far, I suppose. Got as far as the stone steps down from the terrace, sat myself down, took the frog out of his box and was playing with him. He wasn't croaking. I wanted him to because everybody in the house had been so quiet, but he wasn't. And then, me being small and having small hands, he got away from me, and was escaping, down the steps. If he got into the lawn he'd be camouflaged and I'd never catch him. I'd have lost the frog and even if I did find Mycroft he wouldn't want to play.

I chased it to the bottom step before I got it. Clapped between two hands, still and sticky and still not croaking. Actually I think that was near the end for the frog, you know…

But down there, on the other side of the pillar, hidden down the side of the steps behind the roses, I heard my brother crying. I think when I asked him why that was the first he knew I was even there. By the time he looked up his eyes were dry. Red, yes, and all the other traces, but dry, so I couldn't accuse him of anything. He started to repeat what Mother had already said, that Father wasn't sleeping and wasn't coming back. But I knew all that. I told him I'd brought the frog and I think that cheered him up.

I've never forgotten that sound, though. Before I saw him, before I ever knew it was him, before I was old enough to know it was a sound from far beyond even grief, even bereavement, there was just something _wrong_. You'd go to the wall to stop a sound like that.

That's what makes getting back to the flat such a long bloody saga. Every red light is another hateful barrier and, while I know I'm overreacting, while I know if he'd really wanted me picked up he could have had that done, it's long. It's difficult. And for some reason I just can't get Lestrade out of my head. It's nothing he's ever said or done. It's how I saw him this morning. Without even having spoken to him, it's… It's that image of him and his son. It's knowing what that boy had been through and knowing, somehow, that there was absolutely nothing going through either of their heads but relief.

They don't have a good relationship, y'know. Signs and signals, telltales in the conversation, the boy went to live in halls to get away from his father. But there, this morning, none of that made any difference and… and I can't get it out of my head.

Don't get me wrong; Mycroft's not crying when I get back to the flat. But he is afraid. The signs are the same as his anger and his frustration, any other emotion he can't quite get a handle on, but stronger. Less controlled. And somewhere between my asking him not to and my arriving back here he's taken up pacing again.

The moment I come through the door he tells me, "You're not safe here."

So I _close_ the door, now that I'm given a moment to do so, and tell him as calmly as I can, "I came here to recover. Nobody knows I live here except you and two Metropolitan police officers."

"It's enough," he insists. "Everybody knows the Met leaks like a sieve. Look at Thames Water."

"That was a hoax. It was on the cab radio coming over. No harm no foul."

"The harm comes when the rates are due to go up and people refuse to pay for contamination scares. It doesn't matter if it was real or not, the damage is done." Which is interesting. Not the Budget speculation, no, that's very, very boring, but the fact that he answered at all. I had meant to distract him by mentioning recent news, try to move him along from whatever he's hung up on. And he answered to it. He kept right on as though it were the same conversation. Either I'm getting much better at manipulating him or I'm missing the connection.

He looks sick; pale, grimacing as though his heart has fallen level with his stomach. "Your mastermind theory again, is that it?"

"Who poisoned you, Sherlock?"

Second time he's asked me that.

"Why? And for the love of God, sit down." My eyes hurt trying to follow him back and forth. Moving in behind the table I kick out the other chair for him and I swear, this goes no farther until he tells me everything. Admirable, isn't it, how calm I'm being? Only if something's gotten him this worked up there's probably something to be scared of, so I'm guessing I just don't have all the facts yet.

He sits. Looks glad to do so. He's needed it and not wanted to. I know the feeling. Sometimes just sitting down is like admitting defeat, giving up. Giving up can feel very good under the right circumstances. "It all adds up. First you go around making enquiries, when it was just an idea. News works its way back to the top and then that's it. Here they come and after us this time. The idea is for us to be anonymous, so that this doesn't happen, so that they don't see us coming, and now somebody is making enquiries, putting it together-"

"You've lost me," I tell him. I know this is about his work. That's about all I've been able to glean. Something to do with the people who employ him and the nature of that employment. Something to do with a secret about to be discovered. But I shouldn't have stopped him. I stopped him and he has remembered himself. What he can and can't tell me, where all the security hazards are. He's thinking about it now and I run the risk of hearing nothing more. "Mycroft, if I've had something to do with this I deserve to know. If I'm involved in it now, I deserve to know." And I am his brother and he is afraid and I deserve to bloody know. It is unfamiliar, but instinctual, basic. He's just never needed me to understand before.

He sighs, and would like to empty out his soul and tell me everything. But all he says out loud, "Sherlock, my name is on the Secrets Act."

"So's mine," I remind him. England had an African dictator bumped last year and I found out about it, naturally they made me sign the act. It makes no difference, legally. One secret is very much separate to another. It's not a club that we're both in and so we can chat away. But that's not what I was telling him and he gets that.

"There is, as part of the governance of this country, a very small group…"

* * *

Jim

Fourteen of the bastards, that's all it is. I stood before this country like the conductor of a fecking orchestra and we made beautiful music, me and all those good, good people, and now just fourteen, hardly a percent of a percent of a percent, are breaking my skull open. I've had time, you see, to go over them all, to give them the same treatment I'd already given Holmes. I've rearranged the hierarchy a little bit based on age and experience.

For instance, the big grumpy one is still at the top. I'm still calling him Grumpy, but his name is Sulgrave. He's seventy-two and before he dropped off the face of recordable Earth, he was an army general. Much decorated. Did a lot for the Forces both while he was in it, and later on when he was behind a desk. A great man, by all accounts. Should have been given a knighthood and put out to pasture long ago, and for all I know he was, because records end twenty years ago.

Flamingo woman's name is Marishka Olenska. Eastern bloc spy master who defected while the Cold War was still just frosting over, while defecting was still a sensible move. That's all I know on her.

I traded out Cheesewire Face for a former inter-bank financier. It's turning out that Holmes, our own dear overgrown public schoolboy Mycroft, really is the runt of the litter.

There is nothing, zero, to connect these people, except maybe possibly this 'Diogenes' business.

Speaking of, there's a tentative knock at the office door. Danielle creeps in with her hands held up and my mobile in one of them. "I know, I know, I was told to get out. When you think about it, I did get out, and now I'm back in-"

"Still busy, go away."

"Yeah, but you've been busy for eight hours and from the groaning and throwing things-"

"Watch yourself."

"-I wondered if you didn't want something to eat, or a cup of tea, or another light on, maybe?" I'm not answering that. That wheedling, worried, we-need-to-talk-about-Jim voice she does, I'm not answering. "Yeah, I too am bored of hearing me say shit like that; take the hint. Also you have a message."

"Well, is it _important_?"

"I don't know, I can't make sense of it. Which is weird, because it's from Seb, and he's not usually so obtuse…" Still looking at my new and most mysterious of adversaries, I put my hand out. She crosses the room and, before she puts the phone into my hand, takes it between her fingertips and cleans it on her skirt. It's still warm when she gives it to me, but I appreciate the token effort anyway.

Message from Moran. Says, "Xsqueezehim or Xkwisit Corpse?"

"…That is a bit clever, isn't it?" Danielle hums assent. "Is that worrying?" She shrugs. I hand her back the phone. "The first one. Just copy it and send that back."

She's not taking the phone. I'm just holding it out there. You know when you're just holding something out there because your arm gets sore when you hold it out straight like that. Arms are heavy things, even on their own. "Peter Lorre's misconceptions aside, _not_ your secretary."

"Danielle, answer Moran, get yourself down The Mango Tree and bring a bottle of wine on your way back, alright?"

"And you'll crawl out of this dark little office to eat with me, will you?"

"If the mood fucking takes me, now will just go about it?"

She bristles. But a second later she snatches the phone off me and lets me put my arm down. Dark and quiet, while she's sending the message, "There isn't a good enough shag in London to talk to me like that, and _probably_ not in England."

"Hold out, love; you just haven't met him yet." She slings my phone down on the desk with a clatter, "Careful with that!" But she's halfway gone. Getting on like a _child_. All I wanted her to do was be useful, after all.

And then what do I do? I go back to staring at a load of pictures that don't even have stories attached to them and which I can't connect because I don't have any facts to string between them. When I can make it make sense, this gets me Mycroft Holmes, I can _feel_ that. But it's just not happening for me. Yeah, useful old me, have I really been in here for eight hours? He's the _runt_ and fuck, fuck's sake, I'm going to invent a phone that never rings… "Hello?"

"Pack," says Moran

"…That's not funny."

"That's why it's not a joke." Jesus, not again. "Got your message," he says, before I even need to ask. "Sat myself down to squeeze that prick, like a pimple, only as he's sitting there somebody pops him. I've got bits of that Xkwisit wanker on my t-shirt, mate."

"No, but hold on, because I'm not having another false alarm; that could be unrelated, or at least-"

At which moment the door gets slammed right back open and Dani charges in, "They're in the lobby, they're on their way up."

"Moran, stay on the line. You, what are you talking about?"

"Plainclothes. I think it's just police, but I could be wrong." By now she's back in the doorway she left not minutes ago. Along the way she picked up her overnight bag from the spare room, and is putting the papers from my desk in on top. Looking straight at me, not annoyed anymore, "What do you want to do?"

Not a clue, but I can't tell her that, can I… "What're the options?"

"Run, fight or… they're probably only police. You could try and play it here."

"Thought you weren't sure?"

"Yeah, but there's no way you're getting up the side of this building like I could and we'd really need Seb if you wanted to fight it so…" So no options then. She shrugs. No options, then.

Into the phone, "Moran, get back here, wouldn't worry too much about speed limits. Just out of interest, if you were going to set up to kill me-"

"Just get him to the living room window; I'll let you know when I'm in position."

Then he's gone and I put my mobile down. Nearly, anyway; I think half of it is on the table when Dani picks it up by the other half, drops it into her bag. Saying, "What else do you need me to save?"

I'm unplugging the work hard-drive from the computer again when I look at the bloody machine. "This is what they're coming for, isn't it?" The bloody connections. Internet's more trouble than it's worth. Everything leaves traces. I hand her the work, "Take that, go and get the laptop." Then, when she's gone, I do something utterly heartbreaking. Of course, you hope this day never comes, but a smart man has to be prepared for it anyway, and I have been. There is, mounted inside the casing, a small electromagnet, and I have the failsafes to activate it. And when it goes off, it'll fry absolutely everything in there. I'm told it's more than enough. I'm told it'll probably knock the telly out and all.

I set it up, tap that last key with my eyes shut. Oh, God, it crackles. I hear it die. It's like being the child that sits in the farm house while Uncle Clyde takes the old dog out the back and sends it home to Jesus, oh, dear God…

Before I can get properly into my mourning, Danielle's back in the room, grabbing the print-outs off the wall. "Keep those."

"Christ's sake. Anything else? Rubber ducky, favourite slippers?" But she folds them up, stuffs them in two bundles down next to the laptop. But to answer her question, no. There hasn't been time, since the rehearsal run last week, for anything incriminating to build up. I'm not sure it was an honest question anyway; she's not even looking at me, leaning out the window. "You're not actually climbing up the side of the building, are you?"

"No." She reaches left, and her hand comes back with a rope in it.

"Why have you got a line running down outside my flat? Isn't that a bit obvious?"

"It's behind the downspout. It's been there six months, so it couldn't be that bloody obvious." Stood on the window ledge, securing the bag on her shoulder, "I'll hear you if you shout."

"Hear me if I get shot and all. Go."

No sooner is the window frame hanging empty but there's a knock on the door.


	32. Lock:Key

Jim

It is admirable, is it not, that under these circumstances, under this immense pressure, as I stand behind the door readying myself to open it, the only question in my head is what bloody name I put down when I got this place and if they're going to know that. That's not like panicking at all, no way. It'll turn _into_ panicking, if I get it wrong, but for now it's not panicking.

Then they knock again and there's no choice but to let them in. I've got the door on the chain, but that's not going to last.

Lucky for me, the second I lean into the doorframe, "Mr Phelps?"

Jim Phelps, sweet Jesus... I have to stop with these novelty IDs. "Yeah, that's me." The man who spoke, Dani was right, he's a cop. Plain and simple CID. That's all over him, from a day's worth of stubble to the cut of his suit. But he's got two other fellas with him. Now usually I would take that for a raid and it would be a matter of killing time until Moran gets here. That'll be twenty minutes at least and I'm not sure I can kill that much time on my own. Unless Spidergirl had an idea, we were pretty fucked if this was raid.

Except, now I'm not sure it's a raid. The other two aren't in suits. Both wear glasses. One has a steel case under his arm, which might look like a breezeblock but which I know to be a state of the art laptop and…

I've hesitated too long. Under the circumstances it actually fits; nobody's too sure when people like this come knocking. The gent, the cop, shows me his warrant card. D.I. Calloway, and a grim looking sod he is too. "Have you a computer on the premises, sir?"

That's his opening gambit. Here's mine and give it a sharp ear because it's another work of minor genius under pressure, fucking _right_ it is. "You were quick…" He begs my pardon, but I've already got the door off the latch, already leading them through the office. The other two are tech forensics. "You must have been in the area, were you? Does it really take three of you for this? Is it that f-?" Like a broken, mourning man, I am a moment too late in remembering whose company I'm keeping, "…Banjaxed?"

I present to them my dead computer, and all my hopes.

Face blank and locked as a bank vault. Tell them, "It just stopped. I swear I saw smoke coming out the back of it." And then, as they stare, and as it dawns on me, "You're not from the Curry's Fix-It Squad, are you?"

Calloway takes me aside, into my own living room, as the two technicians start salvaging and seizing. Let them take it all. For tonight, I'm a clueless shill who got the wrong signal bounced off his Wifi (there are, actually, a number of people in the world to whom this applies, because of me). And by tomorrow there will be no Jim Phelps and Jim Stark will be looking at nicer flats than this one.

…No, not Stark.

Maybe that's how Phelps happened; it's been an accident. There are a lot of Jameses about, we've just gotten to all the decent surnames. And this is what's going through my head while this walking grimace talks me through what they suspect might have happened. Well, I say 'talks me through', I've had to help him a couple of times. I just can't watch a moron struggle. Usually I'm in a position to get them out of my life, but this one, I need to help. Anyway, one half-hour of guided jargon-busting later, we get to the part anybody with a television can probably recite. They'll need to take any computer equipment away tonight. They'll need me not to leave town. They'll be relying on my cooperation. "If you've done nothing wrong," he says, with love and affection for the old cliché, "You've nothing to fear."

That's one of my favourite clichés, too. All the best clichés are like that one; not necessarily all that true.

"Except for this serial killer running about."

He doesn't say anything. Which is alright, if he can't think of anything to say. If he's thought of something and he's questioning the wisdom of telling me… But no, I know what all this is to do with. It's because I went digging on Holmes, and on Diogenes. Not that I got a chance to do much digging on Diogenes, in the end.

Then the techs want to ask questions. Mostly about how it came to pass that my computer is dead. Channeling Moran as best I can manage, I tell them, "It just, like, _bang_. There was this little crackle and everything was just gone and then it was just… gone." So, having been utterly useless to them there, they move on to giving me the third degree over the machine's behavioural history. And I use the word machine there with emphasis, because they talk about it like a sentient beast. They're saying all this like I should have seen the signs that it was moonlighting as an information superhighway bus station for evil, that this betrayal should have been written all over it, like a wife who suddenly starts buying presents and making dinner to cover the guilt of her affairs.

Guilt? There's only one person in this room with any cross to bear and I'm standing here about to cry out, "I killed the bloody thing!" It hurts enough without them talking like this great slight wasn't even a matter of choice. I wouldn't be here if somebody else had done this. I'd be at the nearest sympathetic computer finding the bastard and I swear, I _swear_, blood and skin and excretions or not, I would take care of it personally. They wouldn't even find the fucker's bones. I can't even think what I would do, because I can't think of anything that would be _enough_.

But I have to stand here, and channel my absent marksman, say 'No' and 'Never noticed' and 'Don't think so' and, more than once, 'Sorry, what?'

Does Calloway notice I knew a lot more about computers when the techs couldn't hear me? Does he fuck. He's just glad there's somebody else in the room as clueless as he is. And he's thinking, because of this rapport, that I'm alright, actually, that I'll do. He's thinking, even if I prove useless, I'll be a good, solid citizen about it all. Bless his cotton socks…

Without so much as a caution of a caution, that's it. They take my poor dead everything with them, sealed in an evidence bag, but still, they go. And I suppose it's fried corpse is no good to me. I just… I never got to tell it I was sorry.

I can't watch it go. When the door closes, I turn my head towards the sound, but that's all. And when I turn back, Danielle's climbing back in the window. All my worldly possessions (the ones of any real worth) bundled on her back. Oh, it's a sad sight, that. Like a hobo's suitcase left behind on a train platform, that is.

She snaps her fingers before I realize she's been holding out her mobile. Saying into it, "Just a second; he's being maudlin about something-" I roll my eyes and reach out to accept it. "Do me a favour, Sebastian," she adds, "when I put him on, will you remind him I'm not his-"

"Secretary, I know," and I take it off her. "I managed all by myself, thank you, Moran."

"I know, I watched most of it. Well, you said not to worry about the speed limits. But there's still a black car, tinted windows, across the street from the main door, and it's not the one the cops are walking to."

"…Nothing's ever fucking simple, is it?"

* * *

Sherlock

Mycroft told me everything I needed to know to understand his fears.

Enquiries have been made about something very secret, and to which secrecy is very important. These enquiries began with him. He's not just afraid of the person asking the questions, but of having to answer for them to his own superiors. They can be ruthless sorts, when it comes to people they think are a danger. And this could all very possibly be because I went out to try and help him and got caught by the wrong person.

Or the right person, depending on how you look at it. I got it _too_ right.

In all of this, there is only one course for me to take. I have to go back and see Mies again. Obviously. Get enough from her for him to fetch back to his masters, that's all. Let them take it from there. I will provide the information that will spare him their current suspicions. This, in the process, will vindicate the theory he originally brought forward, about the recent spike in the crime rates.

Have to be careful, of course. Have to track her down, and find her weak. Have to do it on my terms, and with no subterfuge. Subterfuge doesn't work, learned that lesson. And I don't know yet if I'm on a timer or not, so I have to get started.

Except all of this going through my head? It's already gone through Mycroft's, and now he won't let me out of his sight. We can't even discuss it, out loud. The second I mention it it's bound to turn into an argument and I'll never win out in an argument with Mycroft. So the first order of business is getting rid of him, somehow, or at least finding some justifiable excuse to get away.

It happens, the way everything's been happening lately, with a phone call. This one from Donovan. I'd asked her to let me know when the dead witness was taken for post-mortem. That's what it is. She'll be able to get me in, but she can't delay it. I need to go now. Mycroft overhears all of this. Given he's been breathing down my neck, it's only natural he should overhear. It leaves him in a position where he can't question it, and can't deny that it's important for me to go. He even says, "Take my driver."

"I'll leave it, thanks." I'd rather nobody reported on my movements, thank you. "In case you end up needing him."

Although, it would be an idea. Tell you what, it's a good thing I'm off the skag with all these taxis to pay for. London, don't know if anybody's noticed, but it costs a bloody fortune. I must be working for at least three separate agencies at the moment, overt or covert; you'd think one of them could stand me an expense account. Then again, it's all just fund money that goes on something useful rather than anywhere else, so no, I won't take Mycroft's driver and no, I'm not complaining.

Donovan meets me outside Bart's Hospital. Apparently it's where all the Met's favourite dodgy deaths go to get sliced. I should probably get to know it a little better than I do. As I step out of the cab, she sees me looking both ways. Says, "You're alright, it's only me."

"I told you they'd pay attention to you if you made them."

She laughs. "You must be joking. Break on another case, it pulled back some of the manpower."

"But this is Lestrade's case. Is he still with his son?"

She swallows, before she nods, before she says, "Something like that." Conclusions drawn; Lestrade is supposed to be here. Donovan is covering for him. She is feeling out of her depth. She oughtn't be. She changes the subject far too quickly; maybe guessing that I'm onto her. "Coroner hasn't started on the post-mortems, but he's had a look. Says they look to be the same, simple smothering, no sign of drugs or bruising, any other coercion." Coroner and I might need to have a chat about that, actually. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes. It's one of the issues I had first thing this morning, before Mycroft happened. "The girl and her effects were lying ready when I came downstairs. He said he was alright about waiting, but he wasn't, not really."

"For God's sake, try and act like somebody with the authority to make arrests, would you?" She looks at me, not knowing whether or not to be offended. "You could call it perverting the course of justice, couldn't you? Obstructing an investigation?"

"Never thought of it like that." I open my mouth to speak. "And now he'll tell me to start and think like that. Why aren't you a copper, then, if you're so clever?"

"Because I'm too clever. If you were clever enough to spot that you wouldn't be a _copper_." This time she's not offended, but she glares, and pushes the door open.

The coroner is waiting. Eating a sandwich. He starts telling Donovan all about his trainee, how the criminal element is keeping him busy and without this poor girl down the hall taking on the whole hospital workload he'd be… and then he turns, sees me. Donovan explains me as best she can. Which isn't very well, but at least she stops when she comes to the limit of her knowledge. If he has more questions, he's welcome to ask them, but this time she's not letting him forget who's the copper in the room.

"Don't worry," I tell him. "I'm not staying long."

Our witness is heavy-set. A dour, unhappy face. She wore glasses. They're in with her effects. Her cadaver is unlikely to tell me anything about her final encounter, but her belongings… I don't even need to take a closer look. I see it magnified, beyond the glasses.

Emilia, for all that she never saw anything, turned out to be a damned good proxy for a witness.

I pick it up and hand it to Donovan. Point at the corpse, "She was a lion. He's a lion. Find out what the hell a lion is."

"She was letting herself in," she says. "He saw the lion on… This really is something, this time."

True. And she would have found that herself, if I hadn't come to spot it. It's a double celebration; a break in the case and a break for Sally Donovan. But I have somewhere else to be, other things to be doing before Mycroft gets the idea that maybe I'm swinging the lead a bit on this autopsy; I don't have time to enjoy it. I turn for the door. Donovan calls me to stop. Does it too late, which is what keeps me from ignoring her. She thought of it, she dismissed it, then decided it was worth it in the end.

That's what makes me stop.

She follows me into the hall, still holding the witness' keys. "You're not staying?"

"You have all you need. It is, quite literally, in your hand. You would've found it."

"But I… Listen, what you said, the other day, that…" Lowering her voice, "That you were _dry_." Bless her; people who pick up a delusion and run with it have proven very useful to me today, haven't they? "Could… Doesn't matter."

She turns back towards the morgue. "Could I what?"

Quick, grateful, "Call Lestrade? And not have ever spoken to me about the topic?"

No. I have a murderous thief to locate and a brother to… _help_? Is that, even…? But there's a part of me, which is clearly a very sick part and I ought to get it looked at, but which is also irresistible, and that part is not used to being needed, and which resents the idea of treating being needed as a bad thing. And before I quite feel the word forming, and against all my better judgement, against logic, I say, "Yes."


	33. Casualty: Blue Peter

Sherlock

There's a logic to all this. I promise there is. Let's think it through and see if we can't come up with something. Alright, here it comes, the logic behind why I'm going to see Lestrade when I only have so much time out here in the world before Mycroft realizes the witness would have had to be a giant for me to still be watching the autopsy. Well, we're looking for logic, so I probably shouldn't frame it so negatively to begin with.

Right.

Well. Lestrade is still, in name at least, the officer in charge of the serial murder case. And he's the one the killer's gotten in touch with. He needs to be on top form in order to deal with that. The implication from Donovan certainly seemed to imply he's not coping. And when she told me he'd gone _home_, well… Let's just say that's when I decided to do this first.

I know it sounds sensible. Home. Family. His wife and son. Still, every time I think the word 'son', I think of them behind that building this morning. These are warm images, loving. This would be entirely appropriate.

But Lestrade has gone _home_. You have to understand. When the killer first made contact his wife left the city to stay with her sister, taking their younger daughter with her. David refused to leave, but after this morning he'll be down at the station. Lestrade has gone home and there is nobody else there. He has gone to the place that should be the scene of the warm, appropriate reactions you would automatically envision and none of those things can take place. He's there on his own.

He's there on his own. If I've lost track of my own argument, it's only because I don't even need it anymore. He's there on his own, after everything that's happened. What else do you need to know? I'll stop questioning it now. But while we're on the topic, last year when I was no more to him than a suspect he was the only officer who didn't call me junkie scum, or some related phrase. And when I was in no decent shape to act on my own suspicions, he believed in me and… And a lot of things, while we're on the topic. There's a logic in it, I can see it now myself. But if you'll have to figure it out for yourself. I don't care if you understand or not.

It's with that assurance that I knock on his door. I give him longer than usual to answer, allowing for any extra precautions he's taking. But listening to what goes on inside, his approach isn't careful. It's just slow. Heavy, lumbering steps. A stumble. Too much of his weight on the door as he undoes the bolts. I know before I see him that he's drunk. When I _see_ him I get a sense of just how bad it is. He opens the door and smiles. Says, or tries to say, "That's what I like about you, Sherlock. You make yourself so easy to keep an eye on."

"What?"

"What'll you have?"

"Nothing," I tell him. "I mean, I don't."

"What, because of the other stuff? You can't have anything?" Momentarily, he looks distraught, as though all joy and meaning had gone out of life, shakes his head, "How do you _live_?"

I follow him in. The house is notable only for its ordinariness. Standard suburban three-bed. Wife's raincoat still hanging on the stair-post. But if you'd brought me here knowing nothing, without any context, I'd say she'd left him. The standard clues of bachelorhood are everywhere – empty takeout cartons, empty lager tins, empty cupboards. Empty everything. "Don't you think you were a bit early getting started?"

Empty laughter. "It was happy hour somewhere." The kitchen is narrow. He didn't decorate it. Maybe did the painting, but the white, gloss-finish units were the selection of someone who wouldn't mind cleaning them. From the look of things, Lestrade has touched little else besides the fridge. He can get to that, expertly, with absolute focus, dodging something that looks like a withered piece of water chestnut. "What'd you say you'd have again?"

"Nothing."

"I know, but really. I mean, c'mon. You're a guest and I want you t-… Come to that, what _are_ you doing here?"

"I don't think you should have another one either. Coffee, maybe, but not another one of those."

"Christ," he mutters. Takes another beer out of the fridge anyway and sits down at the table. "Thought the wife was _away_."

"You're probably going to end up back at work tonight, so-"

"_No_," he cuts me off. Drags the word out long and irritating. "No, no-no-no. Not tonight. I was _told_ to go home. They're interviewing him. My son, my own boy and- how much do you know?"

"The bulk of it, I thi-"

_"Interviewing_ him, and _I'm_ not to see him until they're finished. He's _my_ son. He didn't even see anything; he was asleep the whole time. But me, I was told to go home. So I came home. Like a good little boy and I'm staying here until told otherwise, if that's what they really bloody want and-"

I sit down, and it puts him off his stride. When I put out my hand his struggling eyes follow it like a foreign object, something brought down by visiting aliens. "I'll stop you there," I tell him, "because you're rambling. There has been a break in the case. Or there will be soon."

"Psychic Sherlock," he grins, waggling his fingers. Don't laugh; he means it in hate. "And how do you know that?"

"Because I bloody broke it."

"Oh, now that, I would believe… What was it this time? Catch a man trying to flog a load of stuffing on a street corner?"

No. They found the insides of the mattresses in bin liners behind the guard hut this morning. As yet, fingerprinting has turned up nothing from the bags. Why do I know more about this than he does? More to the point, why am I letting it make me so bloody angry? Very little gets to me. Certainly not on this scale. I'm used to casual cruelty, to crippling boredom, to the sting of being ignored, I can deal with all that, but why is _this_, this man sitting slumped here, why is this aggravating me so? A little pulse, just a warm, red coal of rage, and it swells and grows. All of a sudden I know I have to get away from here.

"Fine," I tell him. "I don't have the time for this. In fact, even on my most bored day I wouldn't have time for this. You're going to pick yourself up or not and it'll be nothing to do with my intervention. I suppose I had to come here to understand that. So this is where we'll leave it. We'll leave it with the policeman wallowing in his hollow kitchen and the-"

"And the hopeless fucking addict off to save the world, is that it?" he grumbles, bright with sarcasm and dark with it too. "You've got some nerve."

I'm leaving. No more or less than this. To hell with the logic, and all the excuses too. I'm leaving.

"Oi. No, not finished here yet," he calls."

"Oh, yeah. We are."

"No. No, there's something here for you. It's on the fireplace, in the next room. Sniff it out, detective. Take it back to your brother and tell him I've got more on my mind at the minute, alright?"

If nothing else, it's interesting. Whether I'm in the mood for it or not, it's interesting. The fireplace is on my way out anyway. It's interesting. It gets more interesting when the only thing on the fireplace that isn't a clock or a candlestick is an envelope. And in the envelope are a number of large denomination banknotes

* * *

Jim

Moran's big idea is he'll go down the street and let a couple of rounds off, try and distract the Vauxhalls In The Merc that way. Dani's big idea is she tarts herself up, goes down and plies her old French Tourist routine at the driver's side window while I edge myself out the front door. Neither of these plans sounds exactly water-tight to me, so I'm still thinking.

Moran's plan fails because the people watching me are probably from MI5. Random gunshots on a London street will not interest them. They are here for me, they are watching me, and they will not move from watching me. Dani's plan fails because MI5 still know her face after last year. It's not a huge leap to assume somebody in the car was involved, or has seen a picture. It's not a risk I'm willing to take, even if French was her best subject at school.

If you're looking for a 'cunning linguist' joke, you're looking at the wrong man. Moran'll help you out when he's more than a voice on speaker.

In short, what I'm getting at, a distraction is a sound _idea_. We just don't have one. Can't go fishing with the wrong sort of bait, after all; we need to dangle something in front of those boys that they'll actually want.

"Moran," I call to the phone. "Do you know how many of them there are?"

"Two," he says. "Tinted windows, like, but nobody ever sits in the back. They travel in pairs. Unless they've got mates around the corner where I can't see-" Under his voice, Dani points at the ceiling, _Roof_? I give her the nod and she goes to check the area from above. "-Then it's just basic surveillance."

It's smart surveillance. When the cops have just been round, I'll be honest, I wouldn't have expected them to have brought these barnacles along. Probably would have walked right alongside them, and probably would have gotten followed. It's _very_ smart surveillance; I'll have to stop taking the piss out of them. Well, stop doing it so much. Won't take the piss out of the spooks on Tuesdays and Fridays.

Just confirming, I ask Moran, "And you're in the offices across the street, I take it?"

"Yes."

"Get to the front of that building. Make it very obvious you're in that building and not this one. Don't worry about me, nobody but you is aiming at me. But listen close; whatever you do to steady yourself, do it, because I need you steady. Next bullet you fire has to be fecking _surgical_." There is just too much of a moment's silence. "Of course they are, every single one of them, but this one needs to be extra-special, alright?" Honest to God, there's taking pride in your work and then there's having the attitude over an overgrown nine-year-old. "Oh, and not to offend you further, but you seem like the one to ask; of all the things you nutbars have stashed in my flat, are there condoms amongst it anywhere?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Not the time, Moran."

"Not from me. If Dani's left her handbag, you're all good."

Alright, so as plans go it's a bit ad-hoc, but give me a break. It works, in my head, and anyway it's dark out there. It's a better plan that either of the ones they offered. What I've actually done is taken both their plans and made them stronger, faster, better. I have that technology. Or I would have if the woman would clear out her bag every so often. Christ, it's a mess, all broken kohl pencils and lids full of crushed lipstick, tissues full of Rocky Horror kisses and God alone knows what else. In the end, I just turn it upside down and fish what I need out of the swamp. She can shout at me all she likes afterward. I won't be listening.

Now, to Blue Peter myself a distraction.

A lot of things are in my favour here. For instance, like I said, it's dark out there. The streetlights are on now. Underneath streetlights, everything looks either black or orange, and it's only textures that define anything. That's one thing. Another thing in my favour, I cook, so I can get the textures right.

You're confused. It's okay, all will become clear. I hope. If things don't become clear they'll become cloudy and lots of terrible things will happen. Potentially, Danielle will be dead, I'll be captured and Moran will be out here on his own without guidance.

I didn't say that out loud because he's still on speaker, but I don't know that I fancy my chances if he tried to mount a rescue on his own.

Alright, listen close. How to get rid of a pair of spooks in easy steps. All that is required is a bottle of red ink, a good dose of cornflour, and a prophylactic.

Red ink, in large enough quantities, has a colour that will easily pass for blood. It is, however, too thin, doesn't hold its colour and doesn't stain properly. It needs thickened. That's what the cornflour is for, see? It's all very simple. Now, in an ideal world, there'd be a small plastic bag, the kind used by theatrical actors, with a tiny charge attached to it to make it go bang. In a kind world, there'd at least be a water balloon. But a condom tied off small does the trick.

It's round about now Danielle comes back from her reconnaissance. "I think they're alone," she calls from the hallway. Her steps stop, probably at the mess I dumped out of her bag. Doesn't say anything. Next thing I know she's silently in the doorway; stepped out of her shoes and came creeping. Now she's eyeing me; "You mean you weren't looking for my gun, knife, something like that?"

"No." She opens her mouth, "Later. For now, shove that down your top." Passing her out of the kitchen, I put the blood bag in her hands. She follows, sensibly holding all questions. I stop off very briefly back at the phone, "Moran, are you in position?"

"Have I ever let you down or is this a spontaneous loss of faith?"

"I'll take that as a yes." One more stop. I step for just a second into my own room. Dani doesn't follow. I grab a white pocket square, bring that out to her. Just like that, it clicks for her.

"Ah. I'm glad this is your suggestion. This would have sounded strange, coming from me."

"Just go."

She only stops to put her coat on. It helps her hide her future wound. I go back to the phone. "Are you done being pissy beyond belief at the worst possible moment?" Pissy silence. "Listen, Danielle has just escaped my evil clutches and is on her way downstairs to white-flag the Spookmobile down. You need to shoot her in the back, only don't actually shoot her because it's Dani and it's all a ruse, but do shoot something."

A dead man round the corner won't move them. A tart making straight for the car isn't going to move them. A dead tart right next to the car, however, will move them.

I'm a flight of stairs behind, by the time I pick up my belongings, pick Dani's phone and purse up from the hall floor. Just hitting the lobby when she's halfway across the street. The shot makes me jump, me and the doorman both. Danielle does a good job too, times it right and just drops.

There are two spooks in the car. One of them jumps out and turns her over. Happily, all that fake blood just looks black under her jacket, under the streetlight. The other one jumps out and darts across the road, headed towards Moran. As soon as he's out of range, Dani's not so dead anymore. She reaches up and grabs her rescuer by the head, dragging him past her into the tarmac.

Don't knock Blue Peter, alright? In a dark enough environment, with a gullible enough enemy, with the right bait? Blue Peter can do the trick.


	34. Kindness:Commerce

Jim

After last week I didn't trust any of the other safe-houses. Don't get me wrong, it's not the properties themselves, it's the two incidents coming so close together. Can't just keep popping up in suburbia for a couple of days at a time. I'll turn into middle-class mythology, a Candyman for yuppies, the mysterious neighbour who appears, invites nobody for drinks and leaves only a permanently empty house in his wake lowering the property values of the entire area. Same thing twice in as many weeks is just too conspicuous. So this time, against my better judgement, it's Moran's place. Small house, two bed, mid-terrace. Not the sort of accommodation I'd usually go for, but it's quiet and clean.

Not a thing is stirring on the street when Moran creeps back in, and there is no more than the change of pressure when he opens the door to betray his arrival. He's got a gun in his hand. I hear him put it away when he sees us at his kitchen table.

"Oh no," I call through, "You probably had the right idea there."

Without a word, Danielle picks up her shoe from the chair next to her and puts it on the table. It doesn't stand up. It tips back, resting briefly on the scorched stump where his bullet when straight through the heel, before it falls over like a drunk, like a one-legged man trying to find some dignity in standing up without his cane.

Moran looks at her, gauges his chances, and then looks back to me. "It was a fucking _excellent_ shot, though, Jim, admit that much to me."

"It was," I admit to him, "a fucking excellent shot, but I think she's in mourning." And I shouldn't have said 'mourning', should I? It all comes back, everything I'd gotten away from in all the excitement and the improvisation. I can't help it; my head just falls into my hands, "Aw, Jesus, the work… My computer…" All the contacts have been saved, yeah, Dani's got copies of any floor plans and security details for current and upcoming jobs, Moran's got so much firepower squirreled away in this house and others that I'm in more danger of a raid now than I was earlier. What I'm saying is, everything is still okay. The show can go on going on. But that computer, that office, that was my hub, everything together, centre of operations, it was… It was _home_.

With her sleeve tugged down over most of her hand, Danielle reaches across and touches my arm. There is a _moment's_ comfort in it before I realize what's going on and flinch. "Sorry," she mumbles.

I mumble back, "S'okay."

Out of the silence that follows comes Moran's voice, too bright and loud, disrespectful. "Yeah, I had a brilliant night, thanks for asking. Watched a man I was going to have a laugh pressing on get shot in front of me, crossed most of London in ten minutes, think I might actually have broke land speed records for a private-use motorbike, took a _fucking excellent_ pot shot at my best mate so she'd fall right-"

"-Split her knee open."

"-Shut up, Dani, I'm not finished. –Then escaped the clutches of an angry spy out to make his name apprehending some criminal fucking mastermind, yeah, I had a wonderful night too."

"I'd be much obliged," I tell him, "if we could keep all that between us. You can't shout in a terrace house, Moran, the whole street'll know." Reaching behind her, Dani is opening the back door so she can smoke, mutters that she never thought of that. "Well, no, that's because you grew up in the manor across the road from Lara Croft."

"I did not. She was two over, thank God. Can't _stand_ the woman. Apparently if you steal things which are _very _old, it's archaeology rather than crime." There's a pause, before I feel myself start to laugh. I don't want to, but there it is. "Her and that fucking Doctor Jones. Seb, stick the kettle on, would you? We've been waiting because we're guests."

"We've been waiting because we couldn't move," I tell him. "Dani, lean out of the light; you still look shot."

"Yes, sir." As she moves out into the dark, her eyes cut over to me. Like to see where I'm going with this, like addressing me that way is supposed to change something. When I figure out what she's asking me, strikes me maybe she's right.

"The plan hasn't changed," I tell them. "Primary concern is Mycroft Holmes, and whatever he's brought down on our heads. Secondary is the smooth continuation of the Dirty Harry job. And I do mean 'continuation'. I don't want him caught right now, that's too much all at once. Dani stay on your copper, if it's safe. He'll be needing a shoulder to cry on. Moran, there isn't a spy hunter like you. I'm putting that in your hands."

"Yes, sir," he replies. Sharp, meaning it more than Dani did. That's the army in him. We'll never flush all of that out of his system. When I'm charging him with my personal safety, I can't say that I mind.

"Me, for my part, I'm going to find out what this Diogenes business is all about. I'm onto something or tonight never would have happened, and it's big or it never would have happened so fast. Knowing the name is clearly dangerous. Can't help but get the feeling knowing nothing more than the name is about the worst we can do."

A murmur of agreement out of them, thank God. Then another silence is split, this time by Danielle's phone. She looks down at it, "Speak of the devil."

"What, Diogenes? You know him and all, do you?"

She rolls her eyes at me, walks off down the garden to speak in peace. Must be, I'm thinking, her cop, she's talking about. But it's the very strangest thing. I could swear the first thing she says after hello is, "So you're alive, then."

* * *

Sherlock

"Well, you know how it is," I tell her. "Spend a few years shoving any old opiate into your system, you end up rather well prepared for the efforts of amateurs."

I know it's awfully bad form to just ring somebody when you want to talk to them. But I'm not so very worried about letting Lestrade down anymore. And I'm kicking myself that I ever dreamt Mycroft could deserve as much room in my thoughts as I've been giving him. People keep reminding me, don't they, that I'm not a spy. I'm not a police officer. I'm not anybody, in all of this. It doesn't matter whether you have answers or ways to get them, it doesn't matter than you know what's going on better than most, it doesn't matter if you understand, you just have to be somebody in all of it.

Does that make it sound like I lied to Sally Donovan? When I told her to make herself unmistakeable, to tell a truth they can't ignore? I didn't, that's all true. It's all true. She's in a better position to make use of it; she already is somebody.

So yes, I called an old number and hoped someone would answer and they have. Can one be shot for not engaging in enough bloody subterfuge? Then shoot me.

"You're in a good mood," Mies says cautiously. Then, that quick little voice she does when she's trying to sound honest, as though that were possible, "Sherlock, love, I hope I didn't… set you back, any."

"Don't."

"Don't what? I'm not sorry I did it. I was defending myself. But I would be sorry if I had taken hard work away from you."

Christ, she really does think she's good, doesn't she? If you'd had no experience, no warning, would you fall for that?

"I want to talk to you again."

"What do you call this?"

"In person."

"I'll bet you do."

"Somewhere public. Crowded."

"So I can't see them coming for me. Nice try."

"Is a promise worth nothing to you?" Because she had come across, in the past, as if it might, as if her word was her bond and she, with sensible reservations, expected the same treatment from others. And of course, I had to get in touch with her anyway. It's not as if this is the question I called to have answered, it's not. I just… I had hoped… That envelope is still in my pocket, the one with the money in it. There are a dozen perfectly logical explanations for it. I called Mycroft to ask about it, but I hung up when he answered the phone. I've been rejecting his calls ever since. Not good for not worrying him, not good for not getting followed but I can't face it. There's just small, weak part of me that needs something to be straightforward

"You were the one who broke the trust. I'm getting off this phone before whoever you're with can trace it. I'll bet they've got the borough and everything by now."

"Danielle, n-"

"Goodbye."

Damn. _Damn._ God it's an ugly world, when one mistake means everything is over. Until tonight, right this moment, I believed I was the wronged party. She's the one who stuck me after all, and by her own admission not knowing if I'd live or die or if she'd set me back. But that's just my own position on the matter. I understand it now, she explained it to me; I broke the trust. After trying to bug her I was fair game. I don't agree. Far from it. But that was my mistake, was not seeing it from her perspective.

That's the bridges all burnt, it seems.

And the greatest betrayal of all? It leaves me no choice now but to go home, where I know Mycroft will still be waiting, because I've left it too long now. And he'll ask what I've been doing with me day and I will show him the envelope, tell him what Lestrade said, listen to his excuses and he will not tell the truth. He won't. Apparently it's not a thing that people do anymore. At least not until they're catastrophically drunk or they believe they have reason to hate you.

I walk past at least three places where I know I could score along the way. It hurts. It brings back a shaking that had gone away from me in these last days. That itch that makes you drag your skin red with your cuff. It would be easy. And tonight it would be just exactly what I need. It would all go away and in the morning I wouldn't care anymore. With all that money in my pocket I could stay happily under for days. But I walk past all of these places. It doesn't even feel like a victory. It doesn't feel like anything. It feels masochistic, denying myself that respite and I don't understand it anymore. Clean living is rapidly ceasing to make sense and somewhere deep down that terrifies me.

At home, things don't quite go the way I suspected. The day and all the stress of it, it seems, has caught up with Mycroft. He's asleep in the armchair. Stirs when I come in. I mumble something like hello and he thinks he's safe, sinks again.

In all our lives I don't ever think I've seen him sleeping.

His phone is under his hand. He doesn't move or protest when I slide it away. Nothing reaches him when I take Lestrade's envelope and throw it down in his lap. Then I take his phone away with me to the other end of the flat. Copy a number from my own. Dial. Let it ring.

It's an unknown number for Mies, so her answer is tentative, "Yes?"

"This is my brother's personal line."

Scoffing, "Bollocks it is."

"Look into it." Because people buy each other. That's all it really is. We cover it up with words like 'friendship' and 'family' and 'love', but all it really is is barter-and-trade. All you're worth is what you can offer. "It's all just commerce, isn't it, Danielle?"

"Are you alright?"

"It's all just commerce." I've got a feeling I've come to this conclusion before and just forgotten.


	35. Present:Distant

Sherlock

"We've got him," Donovan is saying. Down the phone, this is, thank God. Glad she's not really here. "For real this time, we've really, really got him. We have his name. Description and home address and everything."

Do we? Oh, well, jolly good show, good for us. Bloody clever we must be and all. I wonder why she's using the royal-We? I mean, _I_ don't know all these things, so who's we? Unless it's her and all those other useless, drunken, emotional cripples which are supposed to be protecting the bloody capital. She couldn't mean them, could she? What do they have?

Ooh, I should _not_ have answered my phone in this shape.

"Hello? Sherlock?"

"I'm still here." Still aware of that, still wishing to God I wasn't. Still very much bloody here. "So what's this name we have now, then?"

"Carl Hedegaard." She begins to tell me a long story. Because she was the one who had discredited the statement of 'eyewitness' Emilia (the one who didn't witness anything), nobody was willing to listen to her when she brought them the lead on the lion comment. Without Lestrade around to feed it through, Sally took it upon herself to solve the problem of these incidents. Which are, when you think of it, _serial_ _mass_ murders and you'd think the police would want them stopped but neverthebloodyless…

Donovan went back to the hotel, on a hunch. She showed the receptionist the distinctive, heavy key-ring. And the woman recognized it immediately. She, apparently, is not a lion. She's a unicorn.

Donovan really shouldn't be saying things like that to me right now. I could _swear_ she just told me the receptionist is a unicorn.

This unicorn that works the desk down in Knightsbridge recognized the lion. And was able, from that, to remember a guest who checked in the night before the murders, who was indeed a lion. (Really. I could swear this is what she's saying. Usually I avoid the worst of this hallucinatory nonsense. Maybe it's because I've been off it for so long, but it's hitting me tonight. Suddenly there are lions and unicorns running around all over London, apparently… Really?) The receptionist-unicorn was able to provide a description of this lion-guest.

Then I am informed that the official London chapter of the lions was able to provide her all other information based on the description, leading her to the lion known as Carl Hedegaard.

That's when I have to stop her. "A chapter of lions? The Lions have unionized? For… for better quality wildebeest when they're on benefits? I… What?"

"Oh," she says, realizing she probably should have started with this. "Lions and unicorns. It's something to do with a TV program, a science-fiction thing. They're two different factions or something? We found him through the London chapter of the fanclub. I was reading up on it, but it really doesn't matter. Do you even get it when I tell you? We've got him. It all adds up."

"…What can you prove? Some sad, Scandinavian bastard watches too much TV, needs a life?"

She takes too long about replying. So long, in fact, that I'm starting to look at the phone, thinking I might have hung up on her, or maybe time is just creeping, the way it will sometimes when one is dancing merrily along the brink of unconsciousness and not caring if one falls in or not. "Sally? Hel-_lo_?"

"…Where are you?" Good question. Very good question. Still here, I know that much. Here is not an established doss, because I'm not going back to one of those, nor is it home, because Mycroft was at home. As much as I can tell from my immediate surroundings, _here_ is a dark corner with a concrete floor and walls so damp they're weeping. But aside from that, no, sorry, Sally, dear, you've got me there. I raise my hands. You win, on that one. "Where are you and is it anything to do with the reason Lestrade still isn't answering his phone?"

Oh, she thinks we're both off getting pissed somewhere. She thinks I went to help him and ended up falling off the wagon right into the gutter next to him. She's part right. Actually, in an abstract sort of way, she's nearly all right. She is alright, actually, Donovan, she'll do well, if she keeps pushing herself, because she's alright, but… How did I get onto this? I love forgetting. Love not knowing. It's always such a fresh feeling, every time. Sets me laughing. Small, at first, controllable, but control's not really my strong point just now. It grows and grows until I can't hold it anymore and it breaks out.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you're like children," Donovan mutters. Her voice is getting away from the phone, starting to hang up.

"Wait," I manage, when I can breathe. "Wait, wait, Sally, wait. Wait. If they arrest him now they only have two days to make it stick. You know all this. And if they don't then they have to let him go and somebody's going to get him away after that and then he's gone again, and that's twice the Met have made a mess of it so-"

But I laughed, and now she doesn't want to listen to me anymore. One mistake, remember? I said it before, one mistake and it's all bloody over. "Yeah, well, the people here seem to think we've got enough to move on. And since here is one place you're definitely not, I'd say they know a bit better than you."

That makes me laugh again. This time she hangs up.

It's not fair. She can't persecute me for being here. Staying off the skag didn't make sense anymore. I can't be expected to pursue life courses that don't make sense. That would be an impossible imposition on me. I _had_ to be here, anyway; this is the only explanation I can give Mycroft to cover up my long absence that he'll believe. Especially when he wakes up and finds his money returned to him. And it's only tomorrow morning, sick to dying because of tonight, that I'll be able to ask him what that was even about.

If the Met want to fuck it all up all over again, they can be my bloody guest. I had wanted to think Donovan was smarter than this. I'm surprised at how far she was able to get, and then not to be able to take it to the conclusion. But who knows? Maybe some extraordinary stroke of luck will crash down upon them like a lightning bolt. It has to strike somewhere, I suppose, and it's not striking here. And here is one place Sally Donovan very clearly is not.

* * *

Jim

Danielle went out. Said she had to make a phone call and sloped off, sighing about how there used to be a payphone on every street corner. I told her she was giving her age away and she didn't so much as blink. Just sighed again how she wanted phone boxes back, how they were a loss to her profession, and to a way of life like ours. I watched her go, all the while scarcely seeming to notice that her feet were bare and grass-stained from Moran's overgrown back garden.

For a while, that's left me with Moran. He claims there's no work for him to do tonight. He will very simply be guarding his house until he knows we're alright here. When Dani comes back, he says, they'll take shifts.

"I can take a shift."

"Nah, mate. You're the boss." Kind way of saying leave this to people who know what they're looking for. But I'm not offended. I feel like I should be, or like I would have been not so very long ago. But I'm not. He's right; each job to those as are qualified for it. That's what he's here for.

But then he goes away, and I wish he was just _here_. Don't get me wrong, he's only up in the attic. It's converted, see, and with him being set right in the middle of a terrace, with a window on either end he can watch both angles. He picked this place because it's defensible. That's obviously not something that was going through my head when I was picking my sixth floor apartment with one decent exit.

While I don't know exactly what to be doing tonight, I'm probably not going to find the information I really need on Rightmove. Then again, it's a very safe website, having nothing to do with business, and I quite like the idea of just doing something safe right now. If I do find anywhere, I'll have to get opinions. Take Dani with me on the viewing, tell me what it would be like to break into. Send Moran along a day later, tell me if I can get shot too easy and should probably just leave it. I'll consult, when it comes to the next place. This could be good for me, y'know. It's not a fresh start. It's not like I've lost everything, burned it all away with a tiny electromagnet and dear Christ, I can still hear the crackle it made… No, it's not that at all, it's not. I'll get a new computer, a better computer. It's just an upgrade.

Yeah, there's a thought to make me feel better enough to start thinking again.

Until, that is, there's a sound of tiny claws behind the skirting at the radiator and I step up out of my chair. Go to the bottom of the stairs, "Moran, fuck's sake, did you know you have mice?"

He leaves his attic crow's nest, drops down to the landing like to tell me the bloody British are coming. Eyes wide, feral, "Did you actually see him, though? I only ever hear the fucker, did you see him?"

"No, just heard him."

"Jim, on my mother's grave, I will do anything up to and including sexual favours if you can present me with his cold furry body, because he's driving me mental."

"I did not need to hear that."

"Look, I'm just saying, if I come down out of the attic in the morning and you've hung, drawn and quartered him, mounted his beady-eyed head on a cocktail stick for a pike as a warning to others that would have followed-"

"You've thought about this."

"Oh, his name is Simon, but that only so it'll feel more personal when I dump his corpse."

This is a surreal conversation to be having, isn't it? Having been hounded out of house and home, this is… yeah, this is surreal.

It's about this time that Dani opens the door and walks in. Sees us discussing up and down the stairs and worries. "What's happened?"

"Vermin in the walls."

She shakes her head. Barely aware of talking, she says, "I'll bring Valentin round, he'll have them in an hour."

"Cheers, Dani," and he starts heaving himself back upstairs.

"Wait, hold on. I have to suffer the suggestion of sexual favours and all she gets is a simple 'thank you'?"

I've just mentioned sex. I've just mentioned being offered more than her for the same amount of work. And yet does she get all wound up? Does she start swearing and shouting the odds and bringing up the contentious topic of her ruined shoe and the foot that could have been shot off still wearing it? None of this. She has already drifted past. Maybe it's just getting late and she's just tired, but Dani's not all here.

I follow her, watch her hitch up next to the sink to fetch a bottle of vodka out of the cupboard. And then she just sits there holding it, looking dimly thoughtful.

About the same way I imagine I would talk to a sleepwalker, "Find a payphone?"

Take the bottle off her, watch her slowly nod. Then catch herself and say, "Well, no, actually. Found a corner shop, asked him where the nearest payphone was, asked him really nicely and he let me use his."

She's just sitting there, swinging her greenish feet, staring past me. I don't even know if it's good or bad thoughtful. So I pour her out a measure. "What do you want with this?"

"Straight's fine." I start to pick it up. "Double. C'mon, it's not like Seb would begrudge me."

"So what spooked you off your mobile all of a sudden?"

"Keep you safe here." Most of that first measure disappears in her first swig, so she rasps trying to speak again. "I… I think I might have a present for you."

Oh, so it was good-thoughtful. Well, that's a relief. I was starting to think she'd held on to that white flag. "Well, you can't say a thing like that and then just sit there. I want a present now."

She raises one uncertain hand, one finger raised, asking me just to give her a minute. I've never had such a confusing present, certainly not one confusing enough to perplex the giver. But from the looks of her this is going to take a while. So when another phone rings, mine this time, I feel safe enough to leave her drifting and answer it.

It's the work phone. It's Charlie, the woman who works the phones at Scotland Yard. Must be on the night shift. If she's looking for me to buy her breakfast she's got another thing coming. For one, I've got too much on, and for another if she's got information she'd better just give it up. I can only handle one hesitating mannequin at a time.

"Hello?"

"Remember you told us to look out for the Sleeping Beauty killer?"

"Yes."

"They've got him. They're setting up to grab him at dawn."

Shit. Any other bloody night… "Thank you for the warning. Usual fee." I hang up, snap my fingers in front of Dani's dreamy eyes so they focus. "_And_ you're back in the room. We've got a problem."


	36. Night Before:Morning After

Jim

It's something about refusing to take me seriously, but Dani's back to herself pretty sharpish. Maybe she thinks it's part of her calming thing she does. It's not calming me, it's driving me to a fucking rage. Worst of it is, she makes a good point, asking if the cops have anything concrete. If they don't, all we have to do is warn the Creep to deny everything and be his lift when they have to let him go. "We don't know what they have."

"Well, hold on, give me half an hour and I'll tap somebody-"

"Who, this time of night? And your cop is almost certainly either busy with me or him anyway. Anyway, we don't _have_ half-an-hour spare, not if we have to get him out of there." Upstairs, Moran's heard the tones of discussion and is coming down from the attic again. Asking what's going on, who was on the phone, wanting caught up. "Cops are prepping to pick up the Creep." And Moran, because he's a clever boy and he knows what's good for him, just immediately starts reaching for car keys. "Yeah. See?" I say to Danielle, "Moran knows what's going on."

Like it's completely fresh to her, "You don't trust him an _inch,_ do you?" There's a lovely moment, a very nerve-settling moment, where just over my shoulder I feel Moran pause, mid-motion, feel the hurt in his eyes until he realizes she wasn't talking about him.

It's enough of a pause to cover me hesitating. "Whether I trust him or not isn't the question. We're not in a position at the moment where he can get caught, it's as simple as that. One word wrong and the roof comes in on top of me, and you're standing awfully close to it all, Dani. Do you want to take that chance?"

Maybe it's unfair of me to think mentioning self-preservation is what makes her change tack, but I mentioned self-preservation and she changed tack. If it wasn't that she looks a little offended there wouldn't be a doubt in my mind. "Where do you need me?" she says.

That's all I really needed to hear, from either of them. "Moran, put those keys down. No known vehicles; you're taking the bike. Sling Green-toes here on the back and you're going to a long-stay car park straight down the road from here." I start booting up the laptop to get him an address and a bay number. "It's a blue Clio, most plain-Jane little car you ever saw in your days. Dani, you're taking it over to Mr Lorre's. Careful, because it'll be crawling with surveillance. Whatever you have to do, just don't be seen, but get him out. I'll text you with somewhere to take him. We must have _one_ piece of clean property left in the city…" It's only when they nearly get stuck in the door together that they stop. Both lingering a second, turning back towards me. Neither of them wants to ask anything else, but I hear Danielle breathe in to do it and cut her off. "_Yes_, both of you. I'll be fine until you get back, Moran."

"Look, if you're not, if you even _think_, ring me."

"He's right, Jim; Carl's secondary. If you need to wake up in Paris that could still happen."

I get that address I was looking for. "You're only going as far as Shoreditch, Moran. Take you twenty minutes, tops. I'll be fine. Now, will you go?"

They know they don't have a choice anymore. The only stop is outside, where she gets him to knock the heel off her other shoe on the wall. She'll spend the whole ride down there crushing the soles against him while he tries to drive. Could have done that better in the car, I suppose, but I didn't want to give them any time to talk about me. God knows they'll probably still try.

It's not a question of whether or not I trust the Creep. He seemed like such a good idea at the time. Maybe I was over hasty, though. Maybe I wrote off the Security Services too quick, thinking they just could not pin me down. Holmes was an oversight, maybe. There's probably no point in dwelling on this. It's just I keep thinking of those transcripts we got, from him calling Dirty Harry? I keep thinking of him talking about his higher purpose. I don't really need the exposure anymore.

Ten minutes go by. I don't think I do anything except move an ashtray out onto the back step. Hate that fucking smell. And then another bloody phone goes off. Moran's poor neighbours will think we're having an international fecking missile crisis in here. Not that far wrong, I suppose. But it's not my phone, or any phone that should still be here. It's behind me, on the windowsill. Danielle's. That's where she dropped it when she came back from the garden murmuring about payphones. Moran calling it, so I'm presuming it's safe to answer.

Her voice, "Jim, it's only me-"

"-Just letting me know you forgot your mobile."

"Yeah. Seb's going to lend me his, so when you message about where to take him, it's this number."

"Understood." That's the other thing I was meant to be doing. I get to it, with the phone held against my shoulder. Covering up, "Bit sloppy, Miss Mies. Points off."

"Sloppy, darling? Me?" Smiling. Arch. What's she getting at? Was there a point to this? I get the feeling there might be, the way her voice drops dark and serious. In the background, I can hear her getting into the clean car, so I know we're not holding up tonight's urgent work either. "Listen," she says, "I still don't even know how wise it is to give you this but… My phone records. Last call in before this one. This is what I had to go out and check on but…"

"Spit it out, angel."

"It's Holmes' private line." A pause, a certainty in her tone, "_Mycroft's_ private line." Sounds like she's correcting herself, somehow, but there's only Mycroft, you couldn't really mistake him, so I could be wrong. I could be wrong, and I don't even care because of what she just said to me.

"And you checked on this?"

"Yes."

"And it's correct?"

"A thousand years could go by, I'd know that voice."

"And you came by this information how?"

"Sources. I reached out, since you've been having so much trouble."

"When you're here in front of me, lie away, I can never tell. But over the phone you shouldn't even try it."

"Can you just tell me where I'm actually driving to?" Is it bad that I have to spend a couple of minutes pulling my own client's address out of police warrant filing? And it's worse, isn't it, that I can't even keep interrogating her while I do that? "Tonight would be wonderful, Jim."

"Don't push it. I'm not used to doing these things off the cuff. Got it." I give it over to her. Then tell her to get off the line, because I might need it.

"The phone number, can you do something with it?"

Can… Can I…? Did I just hear that? Swear the bitch forgets who she's talking to sometimes…

* * *

Sherlock

When I come round, there are four missed calls and no surprises.

Lestrade called first. Lestrade can suffer. And, given how I left him yesterday, probably _is_ suffering, quite intensely. Mycroft after him. Mycroft can suffer too. Maybe he'll have given Lestrade a ring in between times, and they're suffering together, like two hell-bound souls in the same circle, the very lowest, for conspirators and traitors. May they take comfort in the idea that, should the immediate and fiery end of the world come now and all atheism was proven a comforting fallacy in that moment, at least we'll all burn together. I'm not sure hell would allow for the fact that they drove me to it. The third call, though I am more inclined to answer it, also belongs to that dubious collective. Danielle is left to burn with her compatriots.

The only innocent in all of this is Sally Donovan. And I should probably ring her back anyway.

First I get back on my feet. The corner helps. The walls are rough enough that there's enough traction to brace myself, palm to palm, and sort of climb. Dizziness and nausea come easily, but pass very quickly. I beat gravity and they retreat. That's because this is all just the very early stages of the comedown. In terms of illness, this is actually the best I've felt in a while. Enjoy it while it lasts.

What? Because I said I'd stop complaining, said I'd stop thinking about it all the time? Yes, it was working. Then it stopped working, now I'm complaining again. Now I'm thinking about it. Can't help but think about it when it's happening again. Pretending is easy when there's nothing to be afraid of. But a worse moment in life than being stabbed is to see the knife and know it's coming. That's where I am. I'll complain about it if I bloody well want to.

But like I said, I have a call to make before it all comes down.

"Donovan, I-"

"'Bout time you got back to me."

"Your dawn raid, how'd it-?"

"He wasn't there. Cleared out. Must've been warned somehow."

She sounds so bitter. I can't blame her for it either. So much hard work, and such an opportunity for her to have been the officer who brought it to them. "…Damn."

"Lestrade said to ask you if you want to see his home."

"Is it safe?"

"Would he ask you if it wasn't?" _He_ is asking. _Lestrade_ said to ask. She's taking herself out of the equation. Donovan herself has nothing for me, is not on the phone except as Lestrade's go-between. She's angry, yes, she's upset, I understand that. But I haven't even had a chance to apologize. I'm trying to remember the words to do it with when she gets tired of waiting for an answer. She snaps an address at me and hangs up.

One mistake. Surely that's not what life is. I find it hard to believe I'm just discovering this, or that people made more allowances for me while I was… When I was explicitly and remorselessly an addict.

Can't really say _while_ when I'm stood here with probably no more than an hour or two before the crash. Should get over there, before it kicks in.

Of course, Donovan was snapping, so all she had time to give me was the street. She keeps doing this to me. I'm getting wise to it, though. Pull down a cab and tell him it'll be the building with the police cars outside. His reaction, or lack thereof, would have amused me yesterday and this morning depresses me.

It's a tower block. Driver seems even less surprised when he sees that. Maybe it's just because all the sensations of my last lonely night were _very,_ very good, but this morning seems tailor-made to bring me awfully low. All around me, the residents of this block are going about their business, headed off to work or out shopping. One young woman is slipping back in, eyeing the police officer at the door, skinny and holding herself and with sunken eyes. Her morning score is in one of her pockets. I don't need more than the first glance to know that.

There is no sign of Donovan. Lestrade is here, waiting at the railings. He sees me coming and starts towards me. As expected, he is chronically hungover, much worse off than me, and therefore has nothing left in him to notice my state. Well, his illness and his worry. Painted all over him. I watch him coming, that kicked-dog slant of apology in his features, see him open his mouth and all of a sudden I understand the way Donovan spoke to me.

I cut him off. Don't even know why I'm doing it, I just do. "Which flat?"

It stops him. Stops him dead, and he sinks as though punctured. Says quietly, "I'll take you up," and leads off. I stay just a half-step too far behind for him to keep talking to me. Where he gets me, clever bastard, is on the stairwell, where the landing turns him round and places him right next to me, if an ironic step above. "Listen, about yesterday-"

No. Don't want to listen. Just don't want to hear it mentioned, even. "You were pissed," I tell him. Move a little quicker, get a couple of steps ahead. He'll stop me when we get there. "Let's leave it at that."

I keep climbing. He doesn't move. Says louder, "Your brother's only looking out for you, y'know. There was no malice in it." How to tell him, how to say it, that this is what disgusts me more than anything. This is the pity and charity which had been so blessedly missing from my recovery thus far and look what it is, and how, _how_ to tell him that… I keep climbing. "It's the next landing," he calls, hopelessly. "Donovan's already up there."

Wonderful.

She doesn't look at me. She looks at the wall opposite her. "Scenes of crime," she says, by way of greeting, "are tied up on that other case, the one I was telling you about. Remember?" No, actually, but that's what she's waiting for. I'll get it off Lestrade afterward. He'll be so chuffed I'm even speaking to him he'll tell me everything. People can be so easy that way. Or, like Donovan right now, they can be very, very difficult indeed.

"Listen," I start, and before I've realized what I'm saying, "About last night-"

She shrugs. "You were pissed." Not quite. "Way I look at it, at least you were wrong."

"Wrong?"

"We would have had to get him before we could be forced to let him go." She's leaning on the wall in the hallway. She's just here, so far as I can tell, to make sure nobody crosses the tape. Given very few killers murder at home, that's the only real crime gone on here. She sees me hesitating, folds her arms and nods me on. Go on in, get out of her sight, go and look. "Probably nothing in there you don't know already, right?" She looks down. There's a fresh cigarette between my fingers, I don't even know when I took it out. "But you can't light that."

I turn it back into my hand. But before I step inside I try, just try, a half-step back towards her. Try telling her, "You do know none of this was your fault? You've done more than anybody else on this case by a mile-"

"Except for you, right?" She nods me on again. This time I don't feel I have a choice.


	37. King:Beggar

Sherlock

I've had all of thirty seconds on the scene when Lestrade catches up. "Wait," he says, and I turn, on the point of telling him that we're not going to talk about the envelope and – But he's holding out a pair of latex gloves to me. "Scenes of Crime haven't been in yet."

I put them on, taking a cursory first look around. "So, your lot came thundering in here at sunrise, waking half the building and-"

"And nothing, yeah."

"But he was here last night, wasn't he? You checked on that, surely?"

Lestrade crushes down the look he'd like to give me, fighting it since he's trying to make friends. It's quite fun to watch him, actually. "Donovan and another officer followed him home from work, on foot. From what I hear it was a professional, well-executed operation."

"And then, I imagine, kept the place under surveillance."

"Ah, now, before you start-" he says, sounding pleased that he can defend himself on this one, "before you even start, we've already gotten to the bottom of that. See, there are two entrances onto the car park. Naturally we had people at both. Late last night a car pulls in. Woman gets out, lets herself in. So she works nights, or she's been out, nobody thought anything of it. Only she must have left something at the office, because ten minutes later she's back out again. Back in her car. Takes it round behind the building, out onto Fulver Street."

"But that," I tell him, "is just what your people at the front of the building saw, am I right? Your people at the back of the building saw somebody waiting for a lift and getting picked up."

"Something like that. They're running down the car now."

"And the woman? Surely _this_ place must have functional CCTV."

"One of the cameras is. One of them was paintbombed a couple of days ago, not cleaned up yet."

They won't get anything from that. And the car will be found burnt to a shell somewhere and it probably wouldn't have helped anyway. But none of that matters because the question isn't 'Where is the car?' or 'Who is the woman?', but really, honestly, 'Who cares?'

Who comes running in the middle of the night, risking exposure, to warn and escape the Sleeping Beauty killer?

That is a question to keep thinking about. For now, I don't know how long I have in this flat. If there are clues to what he might be working on, his source of information as regards Lestrade, or where he might have gone, it's imperative that we pick up on them right away. Every minute he's out there, and knowing we know who he is, he becomes more and more dangerous. There's no chance of him disappearing, thank God. No, he's done too well for that. But he's got nothing to hide anymore and no reason to hide it. Second by second, all of this counts.

Only one other thing is certain; if any of that is here, I'm going to have to be the one to find it. There's only one question Lestrade wants answered, and that's why. Not the general, semi-useful sort of why that might help him catch the bastard either, but specifically he wants to know why it was _him_, why _he_ was chosen. Why it was _his_ son who woke up in halls yesterday surrounded by dead flatmates and having to know that, through no fault of his own, he had been the cause.

"Lestrade."

"Yes?"

"Swap places with Donovan." He starts to beg my pardon. "You're hungover and too involved. You leave or I do. I won't touch anything, won't take anything. All will be left exactly as you see it now. Send Donovan in."

"You don't get to give orders, here, Sherlock."

"Not since you gave back the money." Oh, of course it was a bribe. You'd have to be a fool not to have seen that. Reimbursement for keeping me involved with the case, my little distraction from greater problems, like recovery. Recovery, and from getting too deeply wound in what Mycroft is toying with at the moment. It was a bribe, had to be.

But I've mentioned it, and they are magic words. Grudgingly, he goes. Grudgingly, Donovan replaces him, and finds me on Carl Hedegaard's couch. "I don't think you should be sitting there," she says.

"Don't worry, I've got gloves on," and I lift up my hands to show her. "Anyway, why not? Carl does. Every night, by the feel of it. Look at that armchair; it's never been used. And yet one sinks quite nicely here, in the centre cushion."

"Yeah," she says. Standing with her arms folded still, refusing to look either at me or where I ask her to look. "Hedegaard lives alone. Are you all that surprised?"

I shift around, looking at her over the back of the couch. "Why are you letting the fact that you don't want to be friends anymore affect your work, Sergeant?" Caught out, and outraged about it, her mouth flaps, searching for justifications I think she'll find aren't there.

Then, settling, she corrects me to "Constable," voice dead, emotionless.

"Really?" She nods. Can't think of anything further. "What's that at your foot?" I ask, to give her an exit. Donovan looks down. It's a fly, lapping at the dregs in the rim of a lager can. She turns her heel and sends the fly spiralling off to safety, the can rattling across the floor. Lestrade, rather quickly, is in the doorway. "It was her," I tell him. "I didn't move anything."

"Sorry, sir," she mutters, on a sort of reflex.

He mutters back, "Hardly matters. Plenty of mess to go around." And they seem content, then, to mope at each other. I am, understandably I hope, baffled.

"_Why_ is nobody else getting anything?" I'm getting things. Alright, so so far it's all useless or disjointed, but I am getting things. I'm also getting up from the sofa, hoping that my activity might spur them on to some of their own, going through to the attached kitchenette. Opening all the cupboards. There's alcohol, but no spirits. Lager and alcopops, nothing stronger. There are Pot Noodles and Super Noodles, Savoury Rice and Rice Pudding, tinned soup and tinned custard. Crisps. Chocolate. Bin full of paper wrappers from a well-known sandwich chain.

Knock open the nearest door. Bedroom. Unmade bed, but we'll forgive him that. Probably get dragged out of it last night. Messy floor, though, pornography just visible at the end of the bed. Posters on the walls; Metallica, AC/DC. And one right above the headboard; a red lion rampant on a black field, crowned and outlined in gold and holding what appears to be a Stop sign. Actually, now that I've seen it there, I see it on the t-shirt dumped over the armchair, on a sticker on a laptop, on one of three books lined up in the corner of the windowsill.

Two DVD boxsets next to the television, well-loved and much handled, softened and falling apart at the edges of the cardboard sleeve. One of them bears the lion emblem again. The other, predictably enough, a blue unicorn crowned in silver, holding what appears to be a streetlamp. The two boxes next to each other, the shields are clearly poised for combat.

_The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the crown_…

Donovan sighs, shakes her head. "I hate when this happens. It's bloody _Texas Chainsaw_. Or Marilyn Manson. Somebody gets hold of this and then all of a sudden nobody cares about why he's really a bloody maniac. This is just _easier_."

Which is certainly interesting and very cogent commentary, but it's got nothing to do with the crime scene. What do they teach these people anymore? Ironically, the average TV viewer would probably know a lot more about turning over a suspect's home than…

Lestrade, in a distant, soft way, like he can't quite help it, starts to laugh. And when I ask him what's funny, all he has to say for himself, "Nothing. It's… It's like they got the days backward. Yesterday morning… I always thought this was how students lived."

Which doesn't even have the good graces to be interesting and cogent commentary. Donovan has developed a little bit of sense, stares at him for a second. But then she stares at me, as if to ask if I'm thinking the same thing. I'm not. I wish I was; looks like she might be on to something.

"Students," she says quietly. "Like, first time away from home. Independence. We're looking at this like it's squalor, but… But he doesn't. He looks at this and it's freedom. Hedegaard sits down where you were sitting-"

"Right in the middle of his couch, spreading out-" I continue, nodding along, encouraging her.

"- Thinking he's the king of the bloody castle."

"That he's got it made. This is his, all of it, and it's all that he wants. His little kingdom with the posters on the walls."

Donovan, carefully, looking at me and then at Lestrade like we should know any better than her. "He'll come back here, won't he? Come back to claim it all, or send somebody at least. After we've cleared out, I mean."

Lestrade tells her, "After he _thinks_ we've cleared out." They get into discussion over that. I don't really see what there should be to discuss. I don't hear it either; my phone rings and I excuse myself.

Well, I have to answer him sometime, I suppose. "Hello, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, where have you been?" His relief is too much. Not only does it raise some small semblance of guilt in me, but it makes me thinking there must be a reason for it.

Not that I'm rising to it. "Trying to catch a serial killer. Where have you been?"

"Trying to think of a way to ask for your assistance."

I'll say this for my brother; he doesn't feel the need to apologize often, but when he _does_…

* * *

Jim

"James, he's a giant and very scary teenager. And I know you and Seb, so I know a giant teenager when I see one, but this one is scary. Get me out of here. Get me out of here now. Get me out of here before I start making threats, because there are beds here, and the way he talks about you, if I start making threats against you, I'm going to end up inside one of the beds. Get me out of here. Get me out of here. Get me out of here. Please. I can beg. He won't mind me begging. I can beg before I threaten, but we're getting damned close to threats. We're getting damned close to me just walking out. Well, running. Running to the nearest car I can steal, and hence by car to Folkestone, and hence, via train, to Paris. Far from him. He won't leave the country, the second half of his favourite series starts up again on Saturday night, did you know that?, he has theories about it, get me out of here. Get me out of here."

Danielle is having a few issues around babysitting the Creep.

I just thought I'd put that there in summary in case anybody hadn't guessed. The short version, she would very much like to get away from him now. She is finding him somewhat disturbing, and is in some small fear for her personal safety. We actually came in about halfway through her little rant there. First words out of her mouth when I said hello were, "I am alone with him and I don't have my gun." She's whispering all of this in the bathroom of a small damp flat in SW9, afraid of being overheard.

"Wait," I say, just to make her stop talking for a second. It's a service I'm doing her, really; when she stops breathing she gets lots of little burst capillaries round her eyes and nose and she'll get through a full tube of concealer in the week, and spend the following week complaining how much the concealer costs. A service to me, not having to listen to that. …Now who's ranting? "Wait, go back. What about me, way he talks about me, what interesting loveliness did we skim over there, angel?"

"Oh, he _loves_ you. And I'm just the bloody secretary, after all." And that's her ramp to go sailing off into another rant. I'll spare you the details, because I'm not listening to him. I just filter out anything she says that doesn't feature the word 'you', i.e. anything not about me. And what I hear, the truth that transpires, is that I have come to be rather idolized by our own dear Mr Hedegaard.

There's a really awful photofit of him all over the news, all his details, his crying mother, the tower block Dani hauled him out of last night. And he's thinking of me.

Yeah, alright, so it's fecking _terrifying_, but it's nice of him nonetheless.

"And when you say, 'his hero, his everything'-?"

"_Please_! He thinks he's your red right hand, the archangel on earth, and you are that which looks down upon his works and smiles…" And there the rambling picks up again, peppered with that pretty little chorus of 'get me out of here', so I'll stop listening again, if only to ask myself what I ever did to give him that impression.

I gave him his disposal method he wanted. That's what he came to me for and what I was paid for. Minor consultation, nominal fee. I just wanted him to go live during the crime spike. I was glad of him when the relative safety of the capital (or, 'the London Loophole') was pointed out of me. But that was as far as it went, really. After that… After that all I did was give him Dirty Harry, really, wasn't it? I asked him to take care of that for me. He knew he was going to get noticed anyway, probably knew he was going to burn out. I gave him the plan to do it in fine style, that's all. What did I ever do to give him this idea that he owes it all to me?

Gave him Dirty Harry, gave him the strike against his son…

"He talks a lot about you recognizing his potential. Send someone to replace me and I'll come over and tell you all about it." Taking an interest in him. Is that all it took? Is that how it starts and then just the fact that I have, on occasion, answered my phone to him is enough? "Jim? Hello? I've been asking you for the same thing since I picked up. You ought to have been able to organize something by now."

"I don't know whether to be annoyed that you think of me as your personal Yellow Pages or flattered you think I can find somebody else that I trust to take over with a very sensitive project in the space of ten minutes. And yes, by the way, you've been talking for ten solid minutes."

"I wanted you to understand just how very important it is to me that I leave here very soon and unaccompanied by Mr Carl Peter 'The Creep' Lorre Hedegaard."

"But you missed one key fact, Danielle; I called you."

"To check in, I know."

"Dani, why would I ever be arsed checking in? If there was a problem you would either have dealt with it, or called up to have your Yellow Pages do it. Now why else would I call you?"

Sheepishness blooms into rosy hope; "…You have something to tell me?"

"I know what we're going to do with Mycroft's phone number." The rest, I proceed to explain to her, is as follows. I have a plan. This plan requires the involvement of both herself and Mr Moran upstairs. It will be very dangerous, and possibly violent, and public, so I won't be in attendance. "Now, given that there's only you and Moran know about Carl, and that I trust to be around him-"

"Oh, God, no, Jim, don't do this to me-" She goes off on one again. I try not to laugh; I was waiting for that. Only said it to tease her. But that's what she gets for talking my ear off on a long day when I can't even go home.

"-I personally will come and take over the babysitting. I want words with that archangel of mine anyway. And you and Moran are going hunting, alright?"

"Oh. Oh, I like a hunt."

"You won't like this one; you're the fox. And please, dear, bite down hard on all the jokes that just jumped into your head-"

"Jokes? But you didn't say anything funny."

"Yeah, that would have been a thing to bite down hard on."

"Listen, I'm not being funny, but if you're really coming over here, get Seb to lend you something that goes 'bang'." No thanks. Don't like the bloody things. I can use one, but I don't like them. "Or 'slice', at least. You won't need it, but… in _case_."

"No more than two hours, Dani. Think you can hold out?"

"Now that I can see light at the end of this long and very dark tunnel…" There's a little rant-coda to come there, so I take that opportunity to say goodbye. She'll only be telling me how much I owe her one. Usually I'd tell her, under those circumstances, that I do have her on a very substantial retainer. But this one, yeah, maybe, if she really is scared…

With Danielle on board and off the line, I go to Moran in the attic. "No luck on that mouse."

"I can't wait for this fucking cat coming round, y'know…"

"Are we okay to leave?"

"Yeah. I think we're clear here. If me or Dani get stuck away after this, you can come back here, no problem."

"You won't get stuck. You'll have a beagle for me. Tethered and tied and ready for experimentation." And that, having exhausted both foxes and beagles, is the limit of my knowledge of the hunt. No more jargon from here on out. He knows what I mean, anyway, what I expect of him. We discussed this. It's more his type of planning than mine anyway, and it all rides on him. Only fair I consulted him.

Only now, out of the blue, he says, "Are you sure this is the best course, mate?"

Hm. Interesting. Because questions like that, questions like the inevitable follow-up, 'Are you sure you're sure?', that's what I have Danielle for. And I have Moran for sharp nods and silent acceptance and actions that speak louder than bellowing from the rooftops. And now I've got Dani telling me yes, absolutely she can hold on for another couple of hours and Moran asking, told you it was inevitable, "I mean, are you sure you're sure?"

"Yes."

"Only, because, the other plan would be that _I_ go to see the Creep, right?"

"What good would that do? I can't do your part on this Diogenes thing so-"

"Hear me out. I go to see the Creep and… I'm sorry, I know you're a bit attached, but I leave it so that this Diogenes thing is _all_ you have on your plate."

I'm not attached. I appreciate his cautious, deferent way of putting things, but I'm not attached. Actually, I take his point. I'm not sure how well we can hope to balance the Creep now that publicity, a mention, is really the last thing I need. The Creep represents some pretty hefty exposure waiting to happen. But it doesn't have to happen yet.

"I don't need you to kill the Creep. I need you to go and fetch me back a beagle."

And now we're back to the way he's supposed to be, the way I know him, where he nods, and accepts, and we go about it. Simple.

Simple is actually a word that makes me laugh, sometimes.


	38. Prayer:Practicality

Jim

I told Dani two hours because we have a stop to make on the way there. Little self-storage place. Moran keeps a locker no bigger than a domestic garage. 'Just bits and pieces,' he says. Then spends a good few minutes describing how Dani has two lockers in this country and a shipping container in the Czech Republic, not to mention a large artist's loft south of the river, and how these hold much more than bits-and-pieces, and if anybody ever breaks into the loft she'll have a hard time passing the gym equipment and practice safes off as art supplies and so on, so forth, blah-blah-woof, he just goes _on_. It's all a bit defensive. Methinks the hitman doth protest too much. Like maybe the contents of his lock-up might just go a bit beyond 'bits-and-pieces'.

There's also the fact that I have to wait in the car, and he opens the shutter no farther than he needs to to get in, and doesn't turn the light on until he's in there. Bless him, he's not a subtle lad. He puts the effort in, but the natural grace just isn't there.

Still, can't say too much about him; all he comes out with is one of those long, steel manhole keys. Exactly the tool for the task ahead of him, but I can't help but ask – "Why, just _why_, Moran, do you have that?"

"You know there's more to my job than rooftops and grassy knolls, don't you?"

"Sewers, apparently."

"It has been known."

I've offended him, I think. He has nothing more to say, at any rate. Things I have learned today; don't question why your mate keeps a manhole key about. Okay. I'm glad I learned that, because it's a bit counterintuitive, don't you think?

Danielle meets us at the door. It's not good for the appearance of normal life. You very rarely get shift-changes when people are just at home, in their everyday circumstances. We're already people who didn't belong in this flat until last night, and we're already trying to hide Carl. But she meets us at the door and I don't really feel like I can say anything against her.

There's a pizza box on the floor, just lying there. Extra-large. Dani won't touch pizza, not even on long nights, not even on fat days. That box is _empty_, and not a crumb, not a stringy, dried up bit of cheese hanging in the corner.

The living room door is closed. I look over because beyond it, in response to something happening on the too-loud television, there's a long rumble of cheerful, Scandinavian laughter. In response to this, Dani says, "Yeah, I don't think he's all that worried that the cops know who he is now." Her eyes are very wide. They stay that way. Even when she blinks, they go straight back to that, as if she's been staring at lights for a lot of hours. I hand her my coat to hang up and she runs her hands over the pockets. "I'm not being flippant anymore; are you armed?" Moran reaches past me to put a hand on her shoulder, trying to be comforting. She ignores him entirely, keeping her slightly maddened eyes on me. "With something lethal and which you can use with speed and a reasonable degree of comfort." Then reiterates, "I'm not being flippant anymore."

Moran gets hold of her other arm and pulls her with him, back to the door. Murmuring, "Come on, pet. You and me should be getting along. It's a nice plan. You'll like it. Nice bit of caper." Gradually, she allows herself to be taken with him, step by shuffling step. He puts her jacket, still bloody from last night, into her hand. That's enough of a trigger. Fast, like it might be taken from her, she grabs the Chinese good-luck charm from her wrist, turns on her heel and presses it into my hand.

I know she means it, because after a couple of seconds she realizes she's touching me and pulls away again. Over her head, Moran is shaking his, like she's just being melodramatic, like this is so typical, pure Danielle, just ignore it. But the print of her fingers on the heel of my hand starts to itch. She didn't mean to do that. That's how I know she meant it, and that's why I put the jade bead in my back pocket.

Then they're gone, the door closing behind them, leaving me there in the hallway. Through the living room door, the Creep laughs again. This time with his mouth full. It's a disturbing sort of a noise. I have to go in there now and surprise him. Like magic again. Scared secretary goes into hall, _mildly_ aggravated boss comes back.

This isn't fair. Nobody asked me if I'm sure I'm sure, this time.

* * *

Sherlock

Mycroft, thus far, has taken the opposite tack to Lestrade. Rather than try to talk about the envelope he must have found when he woke up, rather than offer excuses and justifications where there are none, he is avoiding the topic entirely. Or maybe he's just got more on his mind.

He's had a couple of rather interesting phone calls. Which is part of the reason I haven't exactly been fighting a crippling need to mention the envelope either. We both know what happened. It's why he brought me here to help. It's why I'm helping.

Mycroft keeps small, respectable offices of indeterminate use in a small and very quiet street near Fleet Street. Today, they're being used as war rooms. I'm hanging in the corner behind his desk, trying to be unobtrusive. You see, I'm not the only one here. No, he's got quite the little cadre in attendance. Not wanting to be negative I haven't said anything, but I don't honestly think they're going to help.

Sitting near him, operating the call tracing equipment, this month's P.A. She is remarkable only in being like every other P.A. he's ever had. It's as if he has a factory somewhere, turning them out one after the discreet, brunette other. He also has two gentlemen. The way they hold themselves, they're military trained. One is deeply uncomfortable with this. Could be his first time out, or his first time out under the auspices of Mycroft's lot anyway. The other is more seasoned.

Again, not wishing to put a dampener on things, but I've just got this awful feeling that someone here isn't going to come out of this intact.

It's while they're discussing options (_incorrect_, slightly stupid options, but again, I'm not here to be a little black rain cloud. Actually, that raises a question, doesn't it…) that there's another phone call. Were the police like this, when Carl Hedegaard was making his intentions known to Lestrade? Gabbling and idiotic and then, at the ringing of the phone in question, suddenly stopped, suddenly mute and afraid of what they've all been waiting for. I'm glad they'd thrown me out by then. I don't even want to know…

The only reaction I find even mildly interesting is my brother's. Everybody else in the room thinks they know who's on the other end of that phone. Without even thinking about it, they know it's his contact, his new best friend. The one who's been hanging up on him all day. But Mycroft hovers a little longer, uncertain. Scratches that little place at the end of his eyebrow again, the way he will. The answer comes to me very clearly, even without the facts to back it up; he hasn't told his masters what's happening to him. He wants to bring this in by himself. He's afraid he'll be answering the phone to one of them.

He needn't be. I can read the number over his shoulder. Surprised, actually, she'd do it from her personal line, but that's it right there. I want to help him, I really do.

"Hello?" he says.

On loudspeaker, crackling through the equipment working on her location; "I'm going to tell you where to find me, so you don't need to bother with the Double-Oh bollocks, alright, love?" A very familiar voice. Sounding a little tired, but fearless, and none the worse for wear.

The P.A. keeps everything running, naturally. Mycroft breathes out before he replies. That's an old trick. It stretches the voice, levelling it out, removing any excess emotionality like wringing out a sponge. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I can't be bothered staying on the line for the three-to-five and I'll laugh at your attempts to keep me talking. And because I'm only down the road and honestly, I want this over and done with."

"You sound harried, Miss…?"

"You know exactly who you're talking to. What did I say about attempts to keep me on the line? Now listen to me. I'm in a bar across the park from St Paul's. You can't miss it; it's full of City arseholes kissing up to each other. I'll be here for the next ten minutes, no more. All I want is somebody to talk to. And don't ask me what about. You know that too."

And that's the end of the conversation, so far as she's concerned. She puts the phone down before the P.A.'s machinery has a chance to do its job. No choice but to trust the location she gave.

"That gives us two questions, sir," the veteran says to my brother. "Who is she, and what is it she wants to talk about?"

Mycroft carefully explains that she is interested primarily in action recently taken to pin down the criminal mastermind of lore and legend. He likes saying that; her very interest means that this is no longer a theory. Then says, "As to the first question, I have no idea." Which is a lie. It is quite glaringly a lie. He tips his head back, addressing me without looking at me. "Anything to offer on that?"

…Damn him.

Mycroft didn't bring me here to help. He brought me here to tell me he knows what I did.

"Not a voice I recognized." Which is a lie. Quite glaringly a lie. Mycroft knows that.

* * *

Jim

I needn't have worried about surprising Carl. He's been overjoyed to see me. "I knew," said he, "we would meet again. When I saw your secretary I knew you would come. If only," said he, "you'd come sooner. She is not like us, I think."

I cannot describe to you just exactly how close I came to asking him what the _fuck_ he meant with this 'we' business. It was touch-and-go. That's something that very nearly happened. My saving grace? Danielle's long rant on the phone this morning. My ear still itched when he said that, so I had that to fall back on. What I said instead of giving away my absolute panic was, "I don't think you were as nice to her as you could have been. You'd be in custody now, if it wasn't for her."

Carl nodded. By the way, in case anyone was wondering, he's still a heavy-set, baby-faced monster of a man. He's wearing the torn jeans he was rescued in and an Alice Cooper t-shirt which is a size too small and five years too young for him. In that little living room, with the TV muted and the blinds shut, stuffing his face with crisps, it was about three minutes before my skin started creeping. And I absolutely meant to use the form of 'creep' there. Anyway, he nodded, sinking his head up and down off his bull-like chest, "Because you told her to. I thank _you_, because she was acting on your orders."

There's a logic in there somewhere, isn't there? I don't really know. Since I sat down with him it's like everything has… _warped_. It'll be truly awful when they get this guy, y'know. How many psychiatrists will he morally and emotionally cripple before they get a diagnosis?

And then Carl said a thing that stopped me dead, and has kept me stopped dead until this moment, as my mind has searched for reasons, for anything that might make it make sense, but I'm not getting anything.

All I can say, "Sorry, _what_?"

He swallows what he's chewing that he may enunciate more clearly, says more loudly, "What is _next_?"

Yeah, I thought that's what he said, and I'm still not getting anything. "Maybe best you just stay indoors for a bit. We can keep you here until-" But he's shaking his head, has been since I opened my mouth, just shaking his big bloody basketball of a head, "No? Not working for you?"

What else am I supposed to say? You're not sitting here; you don't know what it's like.

"I was on the television news," he says. "They will know me now, whatever I do. My time is short. Whatever remains to be done must be done soon."

"Yeah, well… Leave that one with me, for now. It wasn't the plan, but if that's how you feel-" I'll begin a constant and gentle campaign of fobbing off until I can have you safely arrested or erased…

"I appreciate -," he begins, and by the way, he's still watching the silent television over my shoulder. Teleshopping. Teeth-and-Tans trying to shift nose hair trimmers and compilation albums. Dani's chorus picks up in my head and I understand the true meaning for the very first time. But anyway, where were we? Oh yeah, he appreciates that I am trying to protect him. Me thinking to myself, if only you bloody knew, big lad. But he does not _require_ my protection. Me thinking to myself, we'll agree to disagree on that one. Mr Hedegaard requires only my guidance and cooperation in successfully fulfilling my will.

This is the first conversation I've had in a long time where I've been _thinking_ responses without saying them out loud. Unless I was letting somebody talk themselves into a hole, that comes up right and often, usually with Moran, but not like this. Nothing like this. Nobody's been like this in a great many years. So I myself am silent, but in my head it's getting pretty noisy. As well as all these things I'm not saying out loud, there's a low undercurrent starting to build up; _get me out of here, get me out of here, get me out of here…_

And something else as well. Something that hasn't even entered my head since… well, since even before the last time I was in a conversation where I didn't feel free to speak.

It's been a while, so I'm getting it wrong. But it is something along the lines of, _Our Father, who aren't in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus, Mary and Holy St Patrick, whatever the words are meant to be, please just let Moran call me and tell me he's got a beagle, or even something terrible like the spooks were onto them or he got shot, or that the influence of the cathedral revealed Danielle's true demonic form out in public and the whole thing had to be aborted, just something that I'll have to go and fix or deal with._

I'm not asking much. Any other day lately I can't keep the problems at bay. And naturally, of course, it's now that things have started to go swimmingly.

I am _this_ close to taking that Chinese jinx out of my pocket and crushing it to dust under my heel.

* * *

Sherlock

I told Mycroft to send me. Told him to look at the two men across the desk from him objectively and tell me she wouldn't spot them coming at a mile. All their talk was about capture and questioning. Nobody had so much as mentioned _talking_. The moment one of those military types makes himself known, I told him, she'll be gone like yesterday.

Mycroft replied that I was not an option. I'm the only one here with any chance of getting information from her and I'm not an option. And we can't even talk about it openly, properly, because I'm not supposed to know a bloody thing.

Then, because of the time-limit she gave them, the decisions all seemed to be made. Don't even ask me what the decisions were. I must have stepped very briefly out of time and space, onto some other plane, because I missed it all. Just that suddenly they were all leaving, and as I moved to follow, Mycroft's hand held me back.

Very quietly, very privately, he said the following; "I am assuming, so that accusations of high treason might be avoided, that your misguided intention in this was to give me a means of contact with the opposing side. It is not the sort of contact I would have wished for and I think you know that. So Sherlock, forget what you know, forget this woman and walk away forgetting." He started to walk away himself then, only turning back to deliver this cruel afterthought; "Didn't you have a murderer you wanted to catch this morning?"

And he left me standing there.

But she was right, y'know, St Paul's is only just down the road. And of course, they'll use their ten minute timeframe wisely, setting a trap, calculating the angles. They'll be doing what they can to make her intended capture and extraction as quiet as possible in such a public place. That gave me just enough time to walk down here.

I don't waste time, the way they will have done, with the front of the building. She'll have access to the service entrance sorted out. She'll be sitting close by it. The moment one of Her Majesty's All Too Obvious Service shows his face, she'll bolt. So that's where I go to, the alley at the rear, where I have to stay tucked in behind the corner because a man with a baseball cap on is loading empty barrels into the back of a van. I watch, because he could be part of her exit plan, but there isn't time to do any more than watch.

It's within that same minute that the fire door is thrown open. Mies bursts into the alley. The barrels stop her, momentarily. Just long enough for her to see me, for her eyes to widen, face to close in confusion. The word 'what' forms on her lips, but there's no sound for it.

There's no sound, either, when I try to warn her, because for once I don't even try. I don't think she needs me to. Mycroft's man comes out right behind her, far too quickly, not wondering how he caught up with her so quickly, why she's not still moving.

The man in the baseball cap stops loading barrels, turns and grabs him. I, for my part, turn to run. I've put no more than two steps of space between myself and all of this, not even into plain sunlight, when a small, strong hand wraps my face. It's instinct that makes me struggle against her, rather than any calculated thought. There are noises behind us. It might just be barrels falling, but there's something heavier, a thud in amongst it all. I wish I could think, but a fingernail breaks at the corner of my left eye. The ragged remainder draws blood. Mies pushes her knee in behind mine, bringing me down to her level. With me off balance, she drags both of us in against the wall.

The van flies past in reverse. Three-point-turn at the end of the alley and it's gone. Not five seconds later a black Mercedes follows it and I know that everybody else is in there, and she's here, and I'm not supposed to be so nobody's looking. At best, they'll retrieve their man, and maybe catch the driver. At worst… At worst I'm not supposed to be here, so nobody will be looking.

She lets go of my face, but only so she can push it against the wall. "What are you doing here?"

"You wanted to talk," I tell her. "They didn't want to talk."


	39. Honesty:Openness

Sherlock

Four minutes and one fast but very _thorough_ search later, Mies and I are sitting side-by-side on the platforms at Bank Station. She is watching me with the utmost caution. Folded arms are, for today, not a defensive behaviour but a cover for keeping her hand on the knife inside her jacket. Honestly. Way she's behaving you'd think I was a _threat_. On the one hand it's hard to blame her; I have every right to want revenge. On the other, it should be patently obvious that she has _nothing_ to worry about.

As it is, for a woman who wanted to talk, Mies can't think of anything to say.

After a while, "Thank you. For the break, I mean, the phone number. I almost… almost didn't give it up."

"Why not?"

She thinks. "Hardly matters," is the conclusion. "It's done now." Part of me wishes it wasn't, but I can't tell her that. What I should tell her is that she's very welcome, and now she can pay me back in kind, by telling me the things she was so poisonously keen to cover up before. I've proven to her, after all, that I owe Mycroft no allegiance.

Well, I didn't last night. Whether or not that still holds true today remains to be seen.

But her silence appears to be infectious. Or maybe it's that I just don't trust myself to open my mouth. She's expecting the quid-pro-quo and looks around to me. I feel without seeing eyes move over my skin, searching out details, analysing what she must have known already at first glance. Long fingers, that broken nail, pass through my vision, moving hair from my forehead. "You're sick," she mutters. Pity on it. Pity from _her_, from a thief, who left me for dead, who knows everything and why should she tell me, because last night I shot up and today, all over again, yes, I'm sick. "Did I do this?"

Should tell her yes. It's more than she deserves. Should say it just to see her bitch face sink under the guilt. But that lets all the rest of them off the hook, Mycroft and Lestrade and everything else. Can't do that either. And when you come right down to it, only one person is responsible for this.

"You know there's nothing I can give you, don't you?" That's what makes me look to her, what gets her eye contact. It's instinctive, like turning toward a loud and terrifying noise. I turn just in time to see a train rumbling down the track, looking like it's coming right for me. "About," and here she pauses, looking round, checking how candidly she might speak, "About that rumour. The one you came to ask me about. I have nothing left to tell you. They already know."

"What?"

"That's what started all this. They already know. They went for… the person in question."

"But… But you said on the phone you wanted to talk."

"And it worked. They sent somebody to talk to me." The lights from the train, which is long gone now, are still burning behind my eyes, bringing up a wave of nausea. But even through all this, the facts, the hints, are starting to arrange themselves. They make more sense now. I hate them, because there is no room for me anymore. "How out-of-the-loop are you?" she asks. "Why were you even there if you didn't know any of this? They tracked the activity around the search term 'Diogenes' to an individual two nights ago and moved against him."

"So you made them think you were coming in from the cold, in order to kidnap the operative they sent for questioning. It won't work. They were right behind the van. There's no way it'll work."

Telling her all of this, my hand slips off the metal arm of the chair, onto her side. She catches it. Pulls me in against her, puts her other arm around me. I get it; it's no real gesture of comfort, it's so I look legitimately unwell. She mumbles to me, like words of security and relief, "You're absolutely right, darling. They were right behind the van. We're beat. Never work, not in a month of Sundays." Her hand is stroking my shoulder, and it's sing-song, like lullabies, and about as much of it is true. I shake her off with as much force as I can manage and sit up straight. I'm fine. Absolutely fine. Illness never used to hit me this quickly. This is a good sign, this is a sign of recovery, I can be proud, and pride will help.

There's a voice in the back of my head, sounding too much like Mies', saying, _You keep telling yourself that_.

I can't believe that Mycroft could have something on his mastermind and not tell me. The other night, when she says this happened, he was… at mine, maybe, or I spoke to him or… Things are hazy, and difficult. Can't believe he'd leave me out so completely, even to humiliate me. This all happened before I gave her his number, so… Things are swimming.

"You never wanted to talk at all. You were just bait."

She tries to touch me again, the vile hand reaching for mine, but I bat her away. With a martyr's patience, "Do you need me to get you home? I've got a bit of time on my hands. It's no trouble."

"This isn't even my line."

"Mh, where _are_ you hiding yourself these days?"

"Haven't you had enough out of me?"

Her response to that is to take two cigarettes out of a pack in her pocket, light them between her lips and pass one to me. "I have _nothing_ for you," she sighs. "I'm sorry your brother made an idiot of you but-"

"Twice." I've said that before I've quite thought about it. And then it's out anyway, so I might as well laugh about it. "Twice, twice, he's done it twice."

"What do you _want_, Sherlock?" she says. Says it with honesty too, and it's more than just an invitation, it's a genuine question.

"The long version or-" But there's a train just coming in, slowing, and she's starting to stand up. "Short then. Basically, to skip the next three months. To wake up at the far side of summer. Mycroft will have found some form of satisfaction, and will leave me alone. You'll be far away. And I'll have gotten this bloody killer."

She had started to walk away, content to leave me with thoughts like that. But at the word 'killer' she stiffens and comes running back, leaning in, "Say that again."

"This bloody serial killer business, it'll be done with."

"The Sleeping Beauty murders?"

"Yes."

"You're working on that?" I can only nod. "Oh, now that's interesting. That's very interesting."

"Why?"

Darting away to the closing doors, "Keep your phone on. We might still be able to help each other."

* * *

Jim

The beagle's name, or the one on his identification anyway, is Mr Bruce. I like Mr Bruce. So far he's being very stoical. I respect that.

The damage to him so far is minimal. His ankle is broken, and he's got a few cuts and bruises. That couldn't be helped. Moran's apologized about that already. It was all about getting him here, see, and about sending the spooks off on a wild goose chase so we can get a bit of work done. Poor things, following after that van. And yeah, sure, Moran was driving. There was nowhere along the route we could work a swap. But all they found was a van full of empty barrels going back to the brewery, and Moran with a thick West Indies accent giving it his very best 'Is it because I is black?' routine. They had no cause, no evidence, nothing to find and no warrant, so he drove away. Then went back and picked up Mr Bruce here.

You're not getting it, are you? Oh, alright, I'll tell you how he did it.

The white van was parked over a manhole, which had been moved off to one side by Sebastian's mysterious steel key, remember that? Upon obtaining Mr Bruce, and dragging him into the back, the captive was knocked out with a fine and very temporary spray of ketamine and other agents which effectively knocked him out. Then he was dropped through a trapdoor, down the manhole onto the walkway of the murky world below and left. That's how he broke his ankle. So it was really just a case of Moran getting clear and then going back for him.

Hence me, and Mr Bruce, waiting here. Because Moran _stank_ to high heaven, so I let him go and change. It's worked out, anyway; Bruce is really, properly awake now. Ready for questioning. He doesn't know that yet, himself. He thinks he's not going to talk. Bless. I've seen so many come past me with that attitude. That's why I respect it. It's really not his fault he doesn't know any better.

So I'm just checking my watch. I'm in no real hurry, but it makes Bruce think there's something to be waiting for, keeps him on edge.

Me, I'm not all that on edge. I have two things I could maybe be worrying about. Neither of them are Mr Bruce. One is the Creep. I've had to leave him alone so I could be here personally. But he'd eaten himself to sleep in front of the telly. He probably doesn't even know I'm gone. Second thing is apparently there was someone else in the alley when Moran snatched Bruce. But he says Dani was dealing with that, and I've just had a text from her. She's going home, to get dressed so she can meet her copper for drinks tonight. So one can only assume that if there was a problem, it's been handled.

Me? I am free from all care. Not from anger, though. Not quite free from that yet. These people came at me, after all. All guns blazing. Turfed me out of my home and made me murder my computer. So I'm not quite free of anger yet.

Then the door opens and Moran comes in, looking fresh, looking ready. Wearing a white t-shirt. I know it sounds ill-advised, but think about it just one step further. What's more disconcerting than seeing your own blood stain another man's clothes? Time to get free, I think. Even Bruce sits up straighter. This is it, for him, and he knows it.

"Are you a smart person, Mr Bruce?" I ask, watching Moran cross the concrete. Do you know where we are, by the way? You know when you drive down the road, and the motorway is above you, roaring, and in either side of the bridge, if you look, you can see steps up the inside, without ever knowing where they go? This is where they go. Under the overpass, five feet of concrete in any given direction, traffic noise as good as concrete twice as thick, that's where we are. Mr Bruce can scream himself hoarse, if he wants. I hope he does.

Anyway, he hasn't answered me. Probably means he's quite smart, yeah.

"Because if you're smart," I tell him, "you'll be listening. I'm going to tell you everything. Let's start right from the top. Literally and metaphorically. My name," and here I indicate myself, placing my hand to my chest, "is James Moriarty. Look at me, Mr Bruce, get a good long look, because I want you to be able to put a decent photofit together when you get out of here." His ears prick up, just slightly, something he can't manage to hide. "Oh yeah. '_When_'. And this big gent here, he goes by the name of Sebastian Moran. And the woman, the one you were hunting, her name is Danielle Mies. She couldn't make it, but just tell Mycroft the name, he'll know her."

Bruce glares hard at me, looking through, searching for answers.

I anticipate his question, "Why am I telling you this? Because I can. Are you paying attention? I want you to fetch all this back to Sulgrave, so you'd better be."

Sulgrave, if you remember, is the Grumpy gent I had pegged as Diogenes' top dog. Mr Bruce looks at me and tries to say, "Fetch it back to who?"

"Oh, you don't know him… Shite…"

Moran says to me, "Sorry, mate, did I get the wrong one?"

"Not your fault. Must be a compartment system. It's like trying to pick up a Sixer by taunting the Fives. It's just a pity for him, that's all."

Moran takes his favourite gun, his birthday gun, the nickel-plated one that picks up so much light in this dark little space it appears to be the source, and takes his first step towards Bruce. But Bruce, of course, knows when he's got a good thing going on. That's the thing about all these government types; they're climbers. They have to be to do the job they're doing. So once you give them this taste, this idea that there's information to be gained… they'll eat out of your hand. If they think they're playing you, they are yours, heart and soul.

"Oh," says Bruce, still being stoical, "That Sulgrave."

Me, "Don't believe you." And for such a stupid, obvious gambit, he is punished, gets the butt of the gun brought down hard on top of his head.

"Former Major-General Edwin D. Sulgrave. Head of the project. I just haven't had dealings with him. He slipped my mind."

Ah, it's all in how you ask for a thing. "'Course he did. Now tell me about Professor Olenska, how's she getting along these days? Is her hair still pink?"


	40. Cut Short:Too Long

Jim

I like Mr Bruce, y'know. I want to take him home and just keep him in a corner spouting Diogenes-related facts for me, like a parrot. The trick of this is, he doesn't think he's giving me anything.

For instance, he'll say a thing like, "Underwood is the favourite to move up." If you're Mr Bruce, this is a clever thing to say, because you believe you're giving me nothing more than a piece of unimportant gossip about a hierarchy I have no direct relation to. This is because Mr Bruce is a grunt, and will never be anything more than a grunt, because he's not smart enough to be anything more than a grunt.

Underwood is the name of the man with the face like Cheesewire. The one I took for a top lieutenant right away, before I'd done any research. He's just got the _look_ of the brass about him. Mr Bruce has just told me that there is a strict, regimental system in place, in which all these ambitious people vie for a better view, none of them thinking for the second that the higher you climb the more like you are to die if you fall.

Seriously. Probability of death or mortal injury goes up by five-to-ten per cent a floor. And that's out the windows of your office and all, no matter what the view is like.

All these ambitious people… I love other people's ambition. It makes my life so much easier. I already explained to you about Mr Bruce and his willingness to please. He's the prime example.

I don't _want_ to know who's involved with Diogenes, or what their plans are. I don't need to know all that. I need to know _real_ things. Helpful things. You don't fight against a Project or a Department; you fight against individuals. Like the sharp-faced Number One Seed, Clayton Underwood. Like Holmes, even if Moran is standing around thinking he should be a year under the sod. Like the excellently helpful, ever-so-accommodating Mr Bruce.

Well, he's starting to get a little bit edgy now. Things are going on a bit longer than he'd thought they might. See, he thinks he's being tracked. He wonders why Mycroft and co haven't swooped in to rescue him by now. Silly boy. The answer's all around him and he's just not listening. But I just can't stand the thought of him labouring under a false assumption. He might think they've just abandoned him. He might think they just don't like him. That he was reported lost and Holmes just shrugged his too-round shoulders and said, "Oh, well."

Nah, I can't be having that. Not when he's doing so well, playing so nicely. I have to help. I leave my seat to get over closer to him. I'm trying to be personal, y'know? So he doesn't think this is just cold, clinical interrogation, so he'll know I'm being genuine. "They're not coming." And I point up over our heads, guide his eyes with my own, as if we were looking to God. We're not. We're looking up at the underside of a motorway, remember? "Do you know what's passing up there? I mean, obviously, cars, lorries, vehicles of all assorted shapes and sizes, but go a step further. What's passing up there?" Mr Bruce isn't willing to guess. Still playing coy, still trying to hold on to as many cards as the poor prick thinks he has. "Sat-navs. There's more satellite activity concentrated over Britain's major roads than there is over council estates on a Pay-per-view boxing night. Tracing you here will take hours, if not days, if they can manage it at all. And as to your microphone, I could bellow your location right down it. The noise and the interference will more than cover it. So stop waiting for them. You get out of here when I say you get out of here."

He chews that one over for a while. There are already a few bumps and bruises on his face. Nothing serious, but they were Moran's little way of teaching him I don't like silence. Moran starts forward now, fist cocked, but I hold him off. Mr Bruce is just reassessing his situation. We can afford to give him a second. What he comes back with is, "You're not a go-between, are you? You're not a representative. You're him."

"Yes. I told y-"

"The mastermind-"

"I've started, so I'll finish – told you that. And I told you to pay attention too. Tell you what, as a goodwill gesture, what can I let you bring back to them? What can you haul to their door like a cat presenting a mutilated carcass… Hm… Thames Water. That was us. We were the fabrication, we were the leak, we were the ones that kept the press frothing for days thereafter. What else? There's a requisitions officer on an RAF base on the south coast that brings the arms in for us. His name is Darvill. Can you remember that?" He doesn't even want to nod, I've perplexed him so. Poor thing. I imagine it's the look abused children give the social worker… "Now. Tell me more about this powerplay that's going on. I mean, Underwood's the favourite, but who else is in the race?"

Over my shoulder, my phone goes off. Moran gets it on the first ring, drifts off into the dark corners, quietly getting rid of whoever it is.

Bruce is wasting time, with the usual rigmarole, the, 'I don't know' and 'I'm not at that level'. Of course, he's said that about everything so far. Seems to be just a matter of holding out until he talks his way through it all. Then he starts in, "It's not much of a race. Sulgrave wants Underwood for it and he's just waiting for him to prove himself."

Have to love these organizations; it's a foregone conclusion, but Underwood still has to send in his CV…

Just as I'm about to question that further, there's a hand on my shoulder. Moran with the phone. And it's important, or he wouldn't have done it. He wouldn't be standing there with his other hand behind him, on the handle of his gun. I excuse myself from Mr Bruce and get away from them, "Hello?"

"Mr Moriarty…" The Creep. I mean, not only does his voice fire through me like some slithering being all over again, but there's no way this can be good. Part of me is already welling up, thinking of poor Mr Bruce and… But let's let Creepy say his piece before we go making any rash decisions. "I am not angry that you left-" Well, that's a start, considering he's really no right to be. "I understand. I have been very disappointing to you."

"No." No, no, no, Carl, mate, nothing of the sort, perish the thought, oh God, please, perish the thought. Whatever you're thinking, you big doughy bastard, perish the fecking thought.

He insists, "I understand. But you will not be disappointed anymore. It will be an impressive thing, this time. You will have had to give me no help whatever."

Oh, Mr Bruce, we hardly knew ye. I'm looking over my shoulder at him.

He was never, ever leaving this place. Maybe they would have found his body in the end, but that's the only way. Feet-first, as my granny would have said. But he was good for so much more. Hours. Hours of casual violence and rapport-building, until he didn't know his own name anymore but he knew oh-so-much about Diogenes and I would know it all too and… Damn. One last stab (no pun intended) with Carl, "Now, did we not talk about you staying in today?"

"They will find me staying still as quickly as moving. Inspector Lestrade is not a careful man."

Oh, sweet prince of heaven, he's going after Dirty Harry, mother of God, oh, the looper, the basket case, the fruity Cheerio, I'm going to murder him. "Hold the line a second, would you, Carl?"

I turn my head to speak to Moran, but no, apparently he won't hold the line and, "You will see," he says. "You will see."

He hangs up and there's no need for anybody to hold the line. Me, looking at Bruce and sort of thinking we could just knock him out and _leave_ him for later but… "Moran?" and I nod at Bruce. My Mr Bruce. To him, and I mean it very deeply, I say, "Sorry."

* * *

Sherlock

Between the hours of three and seven today I was in my bedroom, with all the bolts done up on the door, going over all my reasons for clean-living. Mycroft's note, the one he left with the violin at the very first, bears the print of my hand in pale sweat-stains. The instrument itself was very deliberately and firmly placed as far from me as possible, which when assessed mathematically within the dimensions of the flat, turned out to be the cupboard under the sink, next to the still-untouched morphine needle. It's not often cold, hard logistics comes back at you with irony. I didn't much appreciate it, if I'm honest.

And in my head, I was using words like _health_ and _future_, words I've never believed in and words that never held any real power over me. Curled and shaking, back to the door, under a sheet to keep the outside out. It's the same every time. It's square one every time. And the farther you've gotten, the higher you've climbed out of that pit, the farther you fall back into it. It's harder every time.

Amongst all the words I have no faith in, I keep hearing, _What's the point_?, and having to fight it even though it's the only part of all of this that really sounds true.

So belief and resolve went to war and all I could do was sit there. It all went on inside me, in the seized and breaking cells, in the raw, collapsing synapses, and inside my head. I'm not part of it, it all just happens. I'm only the meat it acts out on. And every time, every time it's the same. For four hours, all I could do was sit there, with almost everything I've ever known dragging me out the door again.

I could laugh about it now, but do you know what kept me in there? Do you know what got me through the worst of it? You could guess, if you tried, but you won't, nobody does… It's another word. One more word that anchored me to that spot on the floor, that broke uncontrolled rage down into manageable frustration and tears.

_Investigation_.

That was the word. Like I said, I could laugh about it now. I could laugh about a lot of things, but it would be hard, cruel laughter. For instance, not all that long after sneaking out of one like a thieving junkie, I'm back in a hospital tonight. Could laugh about that. I could laugh about the fact that, a couple of days ago, I was asking myself a question about Carl Hedegaard's M.O.. Namely, the question of how he kept seven students asleep while he murdered and mounted six of them. There's only so quiet a man of his described-size and figure can be. Where that becomes a joke is the part where I'm shuddering and helpless and across town a police officer was getting the answer to that question first hand. Could laugh, yes, but it would be an awful, heart-breaking sort of laughter.

But I'll come to all that, won't I?

I've been saying that a lot, lately, actually. 'I'll come to that'. I've been saying it a lot at crime scenes. Little secondary questions I've been squaring away for later _investigation_. The trouble is, I haven't been coming to them. Things kept getting in the way. Like Mycroft would call or there'd be a development or I'd end up in hospital and I never came back to the question. It wasn't intentional. Maybe all the questions really _were_ secondary. Peripheral. Maybe the answers wouldn't have made a difference. But I can't shake the feeling that maybe they would have, that this case could have been solved sooner and none of this would ever have come to pass. Maybe. They mightn't have made any difference at all. They certainly don't make a difference now.

It's funny (another thing I could laugh at), but Mycroft called this afternoon. Luckily I had my phone with me inside the sheet. Thinking of Mies, actually, and her parting comment. It's just typical behaviour, pure-criminal-classes, abandoning a sick man on a Tube platform with just a hint, the promise of knowledge without the satisfaction of actually having it. That's why I answered so quickly. If I'd taken the time to even see who was calling I probably wouldn't have answered at all.

"Where did you go?" he wanted to ask.

Magical mystery tour with the woman you couldn't catch. "Oh, you wouldn't believe me if I told you. How did your man make out?"

"We've lost him."

"They took him?"

"Actually, no, so far as we can tell. A vehicle left the scene, but was found to contain only empty beer barrels."

A shame. And a mystery too, but not a difficult one. I thought back, to where the van was parked, to the man loading the barrels. To struggling with Mies and the noises that were going on when I couldn't see. "Sewers," I said, because I knew the answer. "Check if there's a manhole in the alley."

"Yes, I knew you'd followed that far."

"Well, with Lestrade giving back your little inducement, I thought I'd better find a new case."

"Did he tell you that? That I'd paid him to keep you involved with the murder investigation?"

"He didn't need to, Mycroft, it was all very plain."

He hesitated then, and I thought about that hesitation for a long time. Decided in the end it was just that I'd caught him out. For once in his life he couldn't think of anything to say. That's my deduction, anyway. Glad am I to have brought it about…

That was all the discussion I had with my brother. Well, he had to go and send someone to check the sewer, didn't he? Mycroft had business to attend to, and left me to my quiet, selfish illness.

Selfish. I've said this before, in the positive and the negative, it's selfish. It's just going into myself and curling in the darkest corner and thinking about nothing else. It's selfish. God, I've talked about this in the positive, haven't I? I've _longed_ for this selfishness. Just when I thought I couldn't disgust myself anymore, there it bloody is, a new low, another step back, from square one to square zero, and here I am now…

Here's what was happening in the world outside of me between the hours of three and seven. Lestrade took Donovan with him to speak to Carl Hedegaard's mother in her own home. An exercise in pointlessness, if you ask me; it's clear he broke away from her and has been glad not to see her in a long time. If you couldn't read that from his flat, you shouldn't be a professional investigator. But they went, anyway.

Then, under the pretext of seeing his family, Lestrade left the manhunt to officers who have dealt with this sort of thing before. You know, like he's wanted to from the beginning. He didn't go to see his family. He went home. He tossed up between black coffee and the same approach as yesterday. I don't actually know which won out. He's here and smells of both. The alcohol smell is slightly stale, though, so let's give him the benefit of the doubt.

What he didn't know is that he had been followed from Mrs Hedegaard's home, by a six-year-old Renault Clio in an attractive powder blue; the same car that picked Hedegaard up last night when he was evading capture. Why would he know? Why would he notice? That mind-set you get into, where all you want to do is get away, how could he even be looking?

Lestrade was sitting at his kitchen table, where I found him before. Carl Hedegaard was outside. He very simply sat on the back step and, with a small spray canister and a standard length of plastic straw, fired a concentrated dose of cycloalkane anaesthetic through into the kitchen. The dose wasn't enough to suffocate or absolutely incapacitate, but Lestrade made no move to stop Hedegaard when he then decided to enter.

It's good, actually, clever; the liquid is volatile, turns very quickly into a gas which disperses too widely to have more than the faintest sweet scent. It works through the body quickly too, in these low doses. Standard toxicology would never have caught it.

Somebody has to really query the use of rare agents for them to do more detailed tox-screens at autopsy. Somebody.

What Hedegaard wasn't counting on was that Lestrade, for all his faults, is a good man. Donovan wasn't all that far behind him when she realized he probably wasn't going to see his family. And given my utter failure yesterday, this time she decided to go herself.

She walked in in the middle of all this. Tried bravely to make the arrest herself. For her troubles, Hedegaard fractured her skull against the corner of the worktop. Then, as the drugged Lestrade fell out of his chair trying to help her, he panicked, and took off.

That's why I'm in a hospital. That's why Lestrade is here, with a worse hangover than before, but otherwise not too bad. And between us, still unconscious and no one can say yet if that will be for long, Sally Donovan. That's why I could laugh, but it wouldn't be good laughter.

"Don't let them forget about her just because she's out," I tell him. "She was right about Hedegaard going home."


	41. Breathe:Choke

Sherlock

Donovan has no family in London. An elderly grandmother and young sister somewhere near the Welsh border, but no one close and able to travel. I suppose if you need a reason why I'm still here after dark, you could have that one. Lestrade is gone, back to his own ward. Both doors have a police guard on them. Nobody's questioned me or my presence so maybe nobody needs a reason after all.

I took a look at her charts after the last set of observations. All the signs are strong. The impact on her brain isn't deemed to have been too great. A knock-out blow, yes, and no skull fracture might ever be described as minor. But there was no call to drag her grandmother down out of her rural idyll, apparently.

The quiet television says the manhunt for Carl Hedegaard continues. Naturally it has 'intensified' since his 'brazen attack' on two police officers in a family home. The reporting of the case has escalated to portray Hedegaard as the sort of crazed maniac who would not be out of place in a comic book. It's not helping. Vilifying him will not help them find him. In fact, to be staging any sort of 'manhunt' at all, the police must have leads I don't know about. How else would they have any idea where to look? This killer moves with apparent impunity all across the city and…

Perhaps I'm just frustrated. Last night catching up with me, the unconscious woman in the room. There are a lot of factors. Maybe just the fact that I can't think of anything to help anyone. I did try phoning Mies again, but there was no answer. It's probably not a good idea anyway. Part of me knows I should accept any help offered, swiftly and with gratitude. But there is another part, with a voice that sounds a lot like a bad impression of Mycroft, telling me to be careful where my information comes from.

I was told a joke once… No, not a joke exactly. This was before I started to actually quit, the months where I _talked_ a lot about quitting, masking procrastination as preparation. Somebody, a girl I think, was laughing. Maybe that's why I think of it as a joke. She was laughing. She said shooting up was like dancing with a gorilla. The gorilla decides when you stop dancing.

That's what I mean, about Mies and anybody like her. They are dangerous animals, and once one has gotten involved with them it could be very difficult to get away again.

Lions and tigers and gorillas, oh my…

This is the problem with sitting in half-light with nothing to do; my thoughts wander. How did I get onto this? Ah; my phone is vibrating. That's why it's on, see? Shouldn't have it on in the hospital. I've been told off about that in the past. But if there's even a chance one of these calls could prevent more incidents like the one at Lestrade's home, then really I'm doing them a favour.

It's also a call I have to actually _answer_, sooner or later.

"Hello, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, where _are_ you?"

He's tearing his hair out. I know he's got a lot on his plate at the moment, and perhaps I should be showing a little more compassion. But I'm not much in the mood for compassion. I quite like that sound on his voice. But it's sad, and it's brutal, to even think that. We were doing so well and now here we are, where we started, where I'm happy to say, "In hospital."

"What?" It's not a question, not genuine shock. He just can't believe I landed in somewhere official, with records, and he wasn't informed.

"With a… a friend."

"Lestrade."

"No, another one. The kind of friend you don't have to pay."

A sigh hums on the line. "We really ought to have a talk about that."

"Yes, well, I'm… preoccupied." She moved. Donovan, her hand beneath the blanket, she just moved. I hang up on Mycroft and go back to the bedside. "Sally? Sally, if you're there, don't try to sit up."

Fast and afraid, her eyes open. "Why?"

"Oh, don't be scared; you have only your headache to worry about." I reach out to put a hand on her shoulder. She flinches, violently, both hands coming up in defence. I withdraw. It was reflex, pure and simple, and she relaxes almost immediately. Then another reflex kicks in; the movement has left her arms free of the sheets, bare below the sleeves of the hospital gown. With as much speed and suddenness, she covers the left again. Covers up the smooth, pinkish scarification that runs, sinuous, like mountain contours on a map, from her wrist up to her shoulder. If her hair didn't cover quite so much, it's not unthinkable I might see something similar on her neck, collarbone. For her sake, I quite deliberately see nothing. "I'll get a nurse. They said to inform them if you woke up."

"Hospital," she mutters, as if just realizing. "Leave it a minute. I hate hospitals. Never bloody out of them…"

"Well, you're in a dangerous profession."

"Oh, not for _me_," she says. Then seems to think she's said too much. Holds her head so I won't ask. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing." That's true. "Lestrade's here too. I came to see him." That's a lie. A kind one, I think. It gives both of us some room, and some professionalism. "How much do you remember?"

Donovan shuts her eyes and smiles at the ceiling. "Breaking and entering."

"Beg pardon?"

"Lestrade's place. Spare key under the mat, daft bastard. I remember letting myself in. And then… And then feeling useless." She means that too, her hand falling hopelessly down from her head, thumping the mattress.

"No," I say, as calmly as I can. "Hedegaard is huge and you were unarmed. That doesn't make you useless, far from it. That you even made him aware of your presence puts you miles above useless." All of this, I tell to the television up in the corner. Feeling her look round in the dark next to me, "Now if you'd had a gun, we could talk about useless." She breathes out laughter, until it hurts her.

* * *

Jim

Where I am is the damp brick basement of a Victorian butchery. Above us is a warehouse full of contraband European pornography belonging to a prominent East End face I'm not going to advertise. The basement's out of use since, five years ago (and for legal reasons I should state this was before said-face had ever even heard of the place), they discovered eight mutilated teenagers being kept by the capital's _last_ great crazy.

Suffice to say, I didn't pick this place. I wasn't wasting another safe-house on this wanker. This was Danielle's idea; there's a chimney stack somewhere in the dark recesses she uses as a dead drop for fencing sometimes. But honestly, from my place to Seb's to the motorway overpass and now _here_… I'm staying at the Savoy when this is over. Not long. I just want butler-service for a couple of nights, and I don't know that anybody would hold that against me.

Carl's not complaining, though. Phoned for a _lift_, like I'm a fecking _cab company_, after his latest little escapade. Big bastard didn't even have the good graces to finish Dirty Harry off, left him alive and chatting by the sounds of things. "But the other one," he says, "is dead, I think." Oh, yeah, that was the other thing; apparently there's another one now. I could cry, but Carl's not complaining. Carl, actually, recognizes this place.

"This," he says, "is the place where Mr Liam Croster did very good work before. I recognize from the Detection Channel. He was very much an artist." There you go; the name of London's last best loony before Carl Hedegaard stepped up to fight for the crown. I've sort of given up thinking of him as 'the Creep' since we started spending all this time together; when he says things like that I could go back to it, easily. "You were helping him, too?"

Moran still has his gun with him. He could put it to the back of Carl's neck and put him down like an aged mutt. That's just a possibility. It's a thing I'm thinking about. It's not necessarily my reaction to being accused of serial-proxy-serial killing.

But if you're wondering, as you might well be, as _I_ am, how Carl's getting a chance to say all this, I can help you there. It's because he's actually left me speechless. I don't pretend to understand it. He makes me want to scream, and beat him until there are more teeth in his stomach than his mouth, and I know all the things I want to say to him. But you can't just _talk_ to a psychopath. There's a way of putting everything. You have to bite back on everything that might really be going through your head. Have to not scream. Have to fit into the way he sees the world as working.

It requires a _supreme_ act of will just staying silent. Moran's watching me like I might go off at any minute and take a sizeable chunk of the borough with me. It's very possible. Shading to likely, actually. Dani, with last night still on her mind, is far from all of this, sitting on the stairs with headphones held to one ear. Listening to police frequencies. We'll need to move him again, but I wanted a word before he ends up on the run. I can't think what to say, and she won't look at me because of it. She had to climb off her cop when Carl lashed out at his. I was still getting over the loss of Mr Bruce when she rang up, letting me know what to expect.

And I still can't think how to talk.

In the meantime, Carl is wandering around, studying his new surroundings. "Is good place," he says. Grins to himself, "Docklands is Lion stronghold."

…Nope, sorry, he's lost me there. But around me, Danielle's looked up, is exchanging glances with Moran. He's nodding, but looks as if he wants to keep her calm. She, however, doesn't want to be kept calm. Says to Carl's back, "Uncivil Union?" He turns, still grinning, face lit up like he's found a friend. She grimaces back, "The bloody TV program?" Carl's face falls.

Danielle puts her radio to one side, puts down the headphones. Stands. Crosses over to the rest of us.

She says to him, "Do us all a favour and don't mention that when you're questioned."

"_If_," he corrects, shrugging his shoulders.

"When," she corrects back. Where Carl can't see me I'm shaking my head, not a good idea, but she's angry now, and determined. "It's very much when."

"And if I am not captured?" He gets this look in his eyes. Playful. You'd think she'd recognize it; you see it a lot in cats. Usually when they've got a mouse's tail under one paw.

"The only way you're going to evade capture now?" she tells him, matter-of-fact, and it's all very true, but I wish she wouldn't say it, "is if _we_ kill you."

It's fast as the lights going out in a power cut; his hand is round her throat, hard, pulling her up onto her toes. Dani gasps, but the air doesn't go anywhere. "What is 'we'?" Carl smiles at her. "You would not dare. The order has not been given."

Moran's got that gun of his out, pressed to the back of Carl's skull, about to prove him very, very wrong. Dani's hanging hand is working towards her back pocket, feeling for her knife, ready to slash his wrist. Part of me is inclined to let them get on with it. The rest of me warns Moran off with a glance, steps up to interrupt. "Put her down," I say. Sharp as I can, deliberate, unequivocal. _Hopefully_ unequivocal. He's hesitating, maybe just unwilling to show weakness. "Put her down _now_, or the order _will_ be given and you'll be put down and all, Carl."

With incongruous care, he sets her back down on her feet. Then and only then does he loosen his grip and let her breathe. Dani raises both hands; it's not surrender, more 'I give up'. Charges away upstairs to choke and hide amongst the wank-mags.

Carl is still standing exactly where he was, where he held her. He is still looking in that same direction. Now I know how to speak, I get in front of him, where he can't help but see me. "You're not so useful to me you can get away with that shite. Lift a finger against me or one of my people ever again, and Moran here will put so many holes in you you'll look more like Kerplunk than a human being. Is that in any way unclear?"

Breathing out, long and shaky, "No."

"Good." You should hear this. I sound so hard and heartless, totally fearless. You should totally hear this…


	42. Bad Idea:Best Policy

Jim

Carl is waiting in the basement. He was quite happy to do so. He wants to spend a bit of time soaking up the atmosphere left by his predecessor, get a good sniff of the bloodstains in the concrete, that sort of thing. I told him I was coming upstairs to get a phone signal, so I could start making arrangements to hide him. This could yet prove to be true. I haven't decided yet.

The door is shut on him. Moran is standing with his back to it. If Carl approaches on the other side, he'll sense it. Well, with any luck he will. This isn't a conversation I want the big fella listening in on. Moran's hand is behind him, drumming his fingers on the heavy wood. I made him start that up; not because of the echoes on the far side, not because Carl's bulk would interrupt it, but because it tells me his hand isn't drawing his gun again. I'm starting not to trust his trigger finger. Ever since Dani got grabbed, he's looking a bit twitchy on it.

Said-victim is perched up on bundles of lurid pink glossy covers, trying to smoke with the cigarette trembling between her fingers. Right hand side of her neck, there's one big round bruise from his thumb. On the other side, four sharper, slightly smaller ones blurring into a line. She keeps touching them. Swears she's alright, but she keeps touching them.

Watching that, Moran snaps. He says straight out what I've been trying to sugar-coat, hissing over, "What'd you go and provoke him for?"

"Oh, right, so it's my fault, is it?" I could have told him she'd say that. "I was asking for it. Right. Fine."

"You know he's not exactly balanced, Dani."

Ignoring him, she looks down at me. "I stated a fact; Mr Hedegaard is going to be caught or he's going to die; that's the only two endings. And you were the one who said we can't afford for him to be caught." I did. I said that. You can hear her shaking on her voice. "I'm not blaming you, Jim, and I'm not saying you made a mistake. But he is a walking disaster. Anything you do now is only damage limitation." I look up, at that. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the end of it there sounded a lot like she was blaming me and saying I made a mistake. She makes candid, unafraid eye contact and ploughs right on. "It was an experiment, it has not worked. Neutralize it before it blows up in your face."

She's talking too much. And making eye contact. When we came out here she couldn't look at anything but her cigarette or her cuticles. Sitting above me, looking so very sincere. No, there's something wrong here. Far, far too much effort.

"Come down from up there," I tell her. And she does, happily, slips off and stands square to me, arms open, still looking right at me. "Alright. Now tell me why you provoked him."

This isn't the same question Moran asked her. Not by a long shot.

* * *

Sherlock

Once I confessed to a nurse that yes, Ms Donovan was awake and that yes, by then she had been for some time, I was asked to leave. I suppose it wasn't so bad; I left her in good spirits. As good as could reasonably be expected anyway. I think I managed to get the word 'useless' out of her head, and that was what I really wanted to do.

But after that, naturally, I've come home. I'm outside the flat right now, right this very moment.

For the first time in long weeks, I dread the other side of the door. Those weeks, I've been so very happy, and it's only now that I really realize. Now that I'm back at square one. Standing outside my own flat, and there's a scent here that I recognize. Shoe polish and bloody Brylcreem, same as a door-to-door salesman or a schoolboy on picture day. My brother is here and I want to run away. Square one all over again.

Still, can't stand out here forever. I shut my eyes and fumble the key into the door. Not looking doesn't change anything, nor does it make me feel any better, but I do it anyway.

On the other side of the door, he's waiting. Before he can speak, because I need a foothold, "Anything on Hedegaard?"

Irritable, distant, "Who? Oh. Come along, Sherlock, there are more important things going on."

It's been some time since I expected Mycroft's reactions to match those of the average human being. This, though, is too much. "There isn't. I just left a friend in hospital with a fractured skull, not to mention Lestrade's in some sort of shock. There is nothing more important going on."

"We located our man. He'd been shot in the head. A few bruises, a broken bone, but no sign of real torture. We located him because she phoned and told us where to find him."

Passing him, I switch on the TV, flick until I find the news. "Your mysterious contact sounds very helpful."

"_Mysterious_," Mycroft scoffs. "You and I both know exactly w-"

"Not what you said to yourmen."

"You can find her."

"What, track her down? Like a case?" The news are reporting cricket scores; Hedegaard has been relegated to a scrolling headline at the bottom of the screen, 'Manhunt continues'. Damn. "I've already got my little distraction for this week, thank you. Even without the _hired help_…"

Mycroft sighs, "What passed between Lestrade and I-"

"Was about five hundred quid. I take it that was a weekly sum. To keep little brother occupied, keep the cravings at bay. For your information, Mycroft, that's not how it works. And honestly it makes my skin crawl that the murders of twenty-one people, the attempted murders of a further two, are nothing more to you than an opportune distraction. Worse, that you think the same of me."

"Oh, for God's sake!" he snaps. In charge of me, older and wiser. My teenage years return in an unpleasant flood and have to be forced away. "We're talking about national security. It is bigger than your pettiness." I look silently for another news bulletin, one just starting, trying to catch what should be today's main story. Behind me, softer, and with a touch of _threat_ that makes my heart sink. "If you were anybody else, you would have been taken in days ago."

"As it is, you just torture me out here in the world."

"Grow up."

"Piss off."

* * *

Jim

"We're not moving off this spot until you give me an answer, Danielle. A true one, preferably. Why did you provoke the Creep?" I've given up calling him that, but it's still in her head, it's still everything to her, a perfect description. Just saying it, another tremble runs through her, another unconscious touch of the bruises. "Look at you. You're terrified of him. Why would you stand there and basically threaten to kill him?"

No answer is forthcoming. I don't know, maybe it's a difficult question. It doesn't sound very difficult to me. But then I'm an honest person, at heart. For my money, that's the main reason why I so hate to be manipulated. You could, of course, argue that manipulation is what I do for a living. I'll accept that argument, quite happily. I will, however, counter with the theory that working on an overarching, abstract level, is a little bit different to your everyday interactions, to dealing with your own people, the ones you're supposed to trust, who are supposed to trust you.

But enough of the psychoanalysis. I still haven't gotten an answer. Getting a bit bored now, bit frustrated. Can't keep my foot from tapping. Can't keep the sing-song thing from happening, "Why did you do it?"

Moran stops drumming his fingers. Hard to care.

Dani hardens, snarling. Says, "Because you should have dealt with him _days_ ago, and you know it." Stabbing the air between us with her cigarette. She really does look like she means it too. But it's the same mistake. She's far too _earnest_ about it all. "What you've done instead is just leave him lying around with the fuse lit, and now he's struck at two cops and you're about to get blown wide open. And I couldn't figure out _why_ you hadn't done something. That's why I did it, alright?"

I'm not watching her anymore. Eye contact is poison. I look at my feet and just listen. That's why I'm shaking my head. Feeling Moran off on my left sort of tensing up, leaning forward without taking an actual step, like he wants to cut in. Still shaking my head, I look round at him. "Go and see if Carl's okay."

"No."

"Go and see if Carl's okay."

This time he hears me properly (that's what's going on here, don't question it). This time he hears me and he does it. Goes back through the basement. And look, the silly sausage has left the door open. Ah well, we'll not hold that against him. Easily fixed. All I have to do is reach out and pull it closed, no problem. He's a big lug sometimes, we'll just forgive that…

Now it's just Danielle and me and a hundred-thousand splay-legged models.

"Get candid," I advise her. "Do so with considerable speed."

"Don't threaten me," she says, but in a very off-hand way, waving a dismissive trail of smoke and ash through the air. I allow it. Let her continue. This is partially because of the look on her face. It's the same as at Moran's house, sitting next to the sink, asking herself whether she should tell me about Mycroft's phone number or not. The answer then was yes. The answer now is yes. She comes to that conclusion pretty quickly, in the silence.

"What do you still need to know about Diogenes?"

"Alright, I need to know who this source of yours is."

"I am reporting to you, and protecting your source is the sign of a good reporter."

"The sign of an awful secretary."

"When have I ever let you down?"

"Never. But you're disappointing me."

That gets to her. I'm glad. Good to see her wilt, snap, "This is the offer. You want it or not?"

I get annoyed with people like her. Usually I don't put up with people I get annoyed with. But, like the lady said, she has precedent; I have yet to be disappointed. I have yet to suffer any adverse effect. And those bruises look vicious. She must have known she'd get hurt. I'm not as callous as people think, y'know; and I do understand what has to be in somebody's head for them to chance their life like that. Danielle means all of this for me. That, and only that, spares her the graver effects of her insubordination. Well, no; that, and the nature of the offer itself.

Do I want it? "_Fuck_ yes. But we're giving Carl up alive."

* * *

Sherlock

Mycroft won't go anywhere. Has parked himself at my table and is demanding satisfaction. I've tried just going about my business; that's the usual way of dealing with this. Made a cup of tea, booted up the laptop, searched the news sites. This in itself has defeated me. They have nothing to teach me, nothing new. Which means I'm sitting here, with the usual frustration creeping in, and Mycroft's eyes burning into the side of my head to boot. It's not fair. Hard to take. Not when I'm still feeling the dose from two days ago.

Two days? Feels like seconds, and like years as well.

"What?" I ask him, eventually. "What do you want? Specifically, what is the least possible interaction that will make you go away?"

"Mies."

"Not a _clue_, Mycroft, can't help."

"I don't believe you."

Like it's my problem he doesn't believe me. We're brothers. He ought to trust me. I _thought_ for just a little while that he did. When he first found me again, when he promised he wouldn't interfere… For a moment, I felt as if we'd gained something. All that time, I thought to myself we'd lost it to my addiction. But we never had it, did we? Not even before. Thinking back, thinking back, the world was always like this. I just forgot about it for a while. It was all just a pretence.

I bet I knew that, somewhere deep, the other night… "You have her number. Call up, see if she's free."

"I didn't hear that."

I should have known. Should have spotted it the second he sent me to Knightsbridge, to the hotel. That was beneath him. He shouldn't even have been dreaming of that. And yet I was stupid and flattered enough to think he really did need my help with something. Stupid.

"Ask Lestrade. You went to such lengths to keep him working with me, ask him if he's seen her…"

"That's not what happened."

"Mycroft?" I wait for him to look up. "I don't believe you." I said that in honesty, and in cruelty. But now that it's out, and we're both hearing it, we start to get the same idea. I don't believe him. Why should I give up anything if I don't believe him? Go on, Mycroft. Make me believe. Give me something to believe for once. Dispense with the spectre and subterfuge and for once in your bloody life tell a simple truth. What really happened?

"The money was nothing to do with the case. You were _necessary _to that. It was, rather… a further inducement. Just an extra, knowing that you and he were acquainted to… To keep an eye, I suppose." I watch him struggle through that. I watch him sink when it's over.

"You paid someone I could have considered a friend to spy on me."

"Yes."

It was a statement, not a question, but he's just confirming… I wonder if he knows this is worse. Bribery to keep me on the case? Well, like he said, I'm necessary to the case. I've done very well by the case. I could have been content with that, because I know I have worked hard and there have been results. But he gave Lestrade money to _keep an eye_. The recovering addict needs a watcher. The 'hopeless fucking junkie', to quote said-watcher. Yeah, that really worked out for him…

"You really do believe, don't you, in doing whatever it takes?"

Apparently this isn't what he was expecting me to say. Mycroft looks up, looking almost hopeful. He shouldn't. He should keep his hope in check. He has no _idea_ what I'm thinking.

Again, like it's all he knows, like constantly reinforcing the positive is going to work on me, "Yes."

"And if one has a goal in mind, one should do whatever is necessary to achieve it. Provided, of course, it's a worthy cause."

"Yes."

Oh good. I was hoping he'd say that.


	43. Sunshine: Rain Cloud

Sherlock

The next morning is too bright for me. Beaming sun, not a cloud in sight. The first fat man, undereducated or maybe just hopeful, has donned patterned cargo shorts above his Nike trainers. He rolls between me, at a wooden table outside a riverside café, and the raised flowerbeds, red and purple lifting their heads up into the new day. It all looks so happy, so oblivious, so ignorant. Hateful. It's not often I get to feel like the honest one. This morning, I very definitely should not be able to feel like the honest one. But shivering, shying from the sun, with an old twitch in my neck resurging, somehow I feel like a more accurate representation of the world than the barista laughing at a video on someone's phone. That laugh cuts right through me.

Maybe I'm wrong; certainly when Mies arrives she's enjoying this early burst of summer. Bare legs, a scarf in her hair. Bit beneath her, isn't it? I mean, that scarf does _nothing_ to hide the little black bud pressed into her left ear. I don't know, maybe the legs are meant to distract me. They don't. And when she sits down at the table they're out of sight. Maybe it's too early for her. She was up late last night, answered right away when I called. Maybe she's not at her best. That's why, the moment after she's bid me good morning, she touches the sleeve of a passing waiter, and holds his eyes with hers.

Starts to say, "Straight black, no fr-… _Hector_! When did you get out of Nero?" And stops to have a full blown conversation about the career moves of a Spanish student. When she finally lets him go, turns back to me, "He used to work round the corner from me." Smiles to herself, "I feel like this is going to be a good day." More and more I'm starting to believe that good days are a fallacy. 'Good' days are just the days where nothing happens to make you think otherwise. It balances, in the end. But there's no sense in telling her that. Maybe something will happen to make her realize on her own. "So how are you, gorgeous?"

Not gorgeous, and she knows as much. Mere days out of a lapse and it's too early for me too, too weighed down with other things, too aware, oh, all _too_ aware that there might not be too much logic in doing lots of wrong things just because the world around you seems to be so wrong.

Mies was reaching for a cigarette. Her eyes flutter to the ashtray on the table, with three butts in it since I arrived. She stops reaching. "What's the matter? You're not very talkative."

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I take it you have good news for me, about Hedegaard?"

"Very good news," she says, looking calm, looking helpful. But that's all she says, and she just looks.

"Yes, I got what you asked for." The mission statement of the project known as Diogenes, certain records appertaining to the senior staff. And it was promised to me that the more internal communication, memos and such, I could pick up, the more easily available Hedegaard would be made. "So where's the killer being kept, then?"

"Now, dear, have a think; if we told you that it would reveal something about us, wouldn't it? About our operation, the way we move those under our protection."

"That's not the royal-we, is it?"

"We don't have a crown yet. Matter of fact, at the moment, we're being beaten all around the town. Arm and armour us, Sherlock. Then you can tell us where you want your nutter dropped off and it'll be done."

"And I have your word on that, do I?"

"Cross my heart."

And she does, elegantly, playfully. I can't stand it. Nausea, for a moment, is overwhelming, and as the twitch goes off again, shuddering my head down almost to my shoulder, it could almost have its way. The SIS should use more people like me for their meetings. How could anybody ever think anything of me, except perhaps that I was expendable? Or worse, Donovan's mistaken word, _useless_. But because this is Mies, because it's something that comes very easily to her, she forms her face to pity and concern. There's nothing in it. I know that. Still, I have to stop her; "I just need you to make him go back to his flat."

Still so patient, so calm, "Alright." Still waiting. I put my hand up on the table, just to tap ash. She reaches over and squeeze my wrist, just once. And as her hand withdraws again it takes the black memory stick from my palm. "As soon as the contents are confirmed, it'll be done. I'll let you know his ETA." Mies says it all with such openness and caring I look up. Not quite at her. "What?" she smiles. "What do you see? The sparrows singing in the trees, kid on her first tricycle down the towpath? Or the fella coming over my shoulder with the bag ready to go over my head?"

Yeah, that last one.

He looks wrong, in his suit, in the bright sunshine. He looks wrong anyway, they always do. And there is, as Mies said, a very small bulge in his jacket pocket, that could well be black hessian.

"You swore," I say. She tips her head, but I wasn't talking to her and I don't have time to explain. "You swore; you said she gets to leave, that I get Hedegaard before you take her." For the first time since I sat down here, there's no response, on the clear and practically-invisible bud in my ear, from Mycroft. But she's alone. They told me earlier she's alone. They found her first from three streets away and she's alone. Over her shoulder, I'm watching Mycroft's operative, still approaching. Telling him again, "You swore."

Mies says, "Keep watching, Sherlock."

No more than four steps from her back, unfolding the cloth from his pocket, he is seeing only the back of her head. Then he vanishes from view, blown suddenly sideways as the back of his own is taken off with a high-powered rifle. He's dead before he crashes into the wall between the café and the gift shop next door.

In my ear, I hear Mycroft and company go to panic stations. That shot, though, came from the other side of the river. There's a boat over there, moored; that could be it.

"Are they scrabbling?" Mies grings. "Tell me they're scrabbling. Of course, after last time, there'll be back-up, but I would advise against them approaching us." A pause, "And now they've all gone silent, am I right?"

"Yes."

She raises her voice, leaning in towards me, the tilt of her head indicating she knows exactly where the microphone has been taped along my collarbone. "Mr Holmes, your brother is in no danger. I'll give him back when I'm finished with him." Then reaches over and, thumb and forefinger, pulls the little device away, yanks it out on its wire and drops it into my coffee.

The world around us is in chaos, a mull of staff and shoppers gathering around the dead man, a dozen phones all taking pictures or calling ambulances. In the middle of it all we are seated and still. "Well, if you will act the pawn, dear, don't be surprised when you get played. I just wish you hadn't involved him." There's no need to ask; she means Mycroft. "I wasn't sure you would. Lucky for me, someone else knew better." She holds up the memory stick, "There's nothing useful on this, is there?"

"There was when I was shown, but given recent developments I'd say there was a swap somewhere along the line."

"Me too. Do you know enough yourself to warrant my giving you Hedegaard? Please, Christ, say yes."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't want the scary fucker anymore."

"Then just give him to me." She raises an eyebrow, the beginnings of a laugh. I agree, wholeheartedly; that wasn't even worth a try. I still want Hedegaard; therefore he still has value. It's all just commerce.

"Define 'enough'."

"One weak link."

* * *

Jim

He talks. While Moran watches down the rifle sight, I listen in. He talks until he says the right thing, the thing that makes me clap my hands, "Oh, yes, that's us, that'll do nicely!"

Muttering from the corner of his mouth, through his protruding tongue, "You really can't make me jump when I'm holding this thing."

Now that Mycroft's not listening in on her, "Nor can you shout when you're right in my ear."

"Wrap it up, Dani. Get yourself out." She tells her poor sad boy we'll get back to him about Hedegaard, as promised. I wish I'd brought binoculars. Moran's concentrating, won't give me a go on his sight. But it would only be icing, anyway. As things stand, we take everything from him and leave him poorer and sadder than ever. Good. Maybe he'll know not to tangle with us again. Maybe he'll take my little hint, and never again so much as contact our dear Danielle, because she's not just one person on her own. We had a chat about that, after Carl. We've come to an understanding, her and I, about what it means to be senior management in an organization. Moran guides her away, protects her along the towpath until she comes to somewhere she can lose the man following her, climb the steps to the road and meet the driver I sent.

"I'm taking this damned thing out of my ear," is the next I hear from her, "and I'm going home." Last thing I hear from her too. Moran's looking daggers at me like I've done something.

"What?"

"Nothing," he mutters. I start to move the boat while he dismantles his rifle, drops pieces after piece into the river as we go along. I keep thinking to myself he could at least _try_ and look happy. After all, it's solved. Even if he hasn't figured out the plan (and he might not have, because it's another stroke of genius, and simple as it might seem to me maybe you need my intellect) he heard that reaction. I made him _jump_, for fuck's sake, he has to know that this is _good_. We've got him now. Mycroft Holmes, totally compromised, opened up and pinned down on cork, dissected like the greasy fucking rat he is. This is what Moran wanted! Him _and _her royal Huffiness, but she's got a few bits and pieces on her mind. She can flounce off today, it's alright. Moran, though… I would like a bit of congratulation from Moran, y'know? Is that too much to ask?

"You're usually a lot chirpier when you've just opened a recruitment opportunity at MI5."

"Seriously. Nothing wrong at all, mate. You got what you needed, then?"

"Did you tell me once you could read lips down a sight?"

"Not when they're both sitting in profile."

"Oh. Yeah, yeah, I got what I needed. And, extra bonus round, we can give up the Creep now. We are up on the day, Moran, now will you crack a smile?"

He doesn't. He sits where he is a while longer, giving his stock to the Thames. Then, with empty hands, he turns round and asks me, "Is this 'next', then?"

"I think you went past 'next' round about your fourth footballer."

"For you, I mean."

"Well, I don't know about that. I mean, I'd like to still have my own flat, after all. And we're still sailing _far_ too close to the wind with Creepy, I won't lie to you there. There's maybe just a bit much stress in it for this to really count as… Then again, I don't suppose I'd have gotten to this today if none of that had-" He's just watching me talk through all this. "Wait," I say, "Is that the point you're making? That I should be worried? I'm all hopped up today, yeah, but look what it took to get here?"

He laughs (finally), shakes his head. "Nah, mate. Dani's the only one that makes points at you."

"So you're not pissed off at me, then?"

"No."

"Good, because you might be in a minute." He looks up, sharp. It's like he already knows what I'm going to say. Like there's only this one thing in all the world that I could take away from him, and he knows I'm about to do it. "I'm really sorry, but you might not get to shoot Holmes."

"Not _right away_, you mean. Like you said. There might be some destruction done, some havoc wreaked, first. Like you said."

"Not… Not within the foreseeable." It's like I've taken his teddy bear away. There's this one, high-pitched, choked little noise in the back of his throat, break your heart if you let it. And he stares, as if he can't quite think of anything to say, or anyway I might have broken his heart with more speed and efficiency. "Aw, I'm really sorry," I tell those big mopey eyes, "Honest I am. I'll get you a nice MP to do in, and whatever way you want it."

"But-" he begins, then falters, mouth flapping like a caught fish. "But-" and the same again. "But… just… Just _why_?"

"Because the way I've got it in my head, we might have a lot more fun with letting him live. Still need to work out the details, but I think I can manage it and… Moran, it's an opportunity I can't pass up. I'm really sorry."

I've known this for a couple of days. I was just trying to think of a way to break it to him. Then I didn't feel right doing it under his own roof, which is, after all, where I made the promise in the first place. I only promised him 'if', though. This doesn't count as breaking my word. And _if_ the opportunity were still to make itself known, he's still first in line. But it's getting to be a very small 'if'. An if-all-else-fails sort of an if.

"I don't understand," he admits, hanging his head. "When you know all the details will you explain it to me?"

"Yeah, of course. Trust me, you'll like it. You'll laugh. And later on when he can messed about, I'll give you a free go, alright?" It's not really alright. He's not happy with me, not at all, not one bit. But he nods anyway. He's got no choice in this, so he resigns himself while I'm still making offers, getting as much out of this as he's going to. "It's nobody's fault," I tell him. His head flips up, glaring, and I stop talking. Apparently it's my fault.

After a good long sulk, Moran takes an experimental stab at cruelty. He shouldn't. Shouldn't stab. Like he said, there's only one person waves points in my face. But, in her absence, "Have you told Dani we're not killing him?"

"…Why?"

"She'll be just as upset."

"Oh, she just wants him skewered; she'll be alright. I've no explaining to do to her."

"It would be a consideration."

She's no right to ask for consideration, not at the moment. Dani will hear the plan when I need hands in the field to put it into action. She will come to terms with the result when she realizes what it's going to be. And if the cow doesn't like it, well, what else is new? Consideration? No, not likely, not soon.


	44. Butterfly:Hurricane

Jim

You're not in the loop on this one. It's okay though, neither is Moran. I can explain to you both at once. For him, it begins with asking why I had him stop at a small and very discreet bank on the way back here. Now, normally I hate when people ask questions they ought to already know the answers to? But I'm in a good mood today. Landing back in at his place, I show him what I picked up from safe-deposit. External hard-drive. Old records there was no room or use for, but I just didn't want to get rid of them.

"You and your goldfish memory," I say. "You drove me when I got the box."

"Mate, I'm your bloody chauffeur half the time. I don't remember every single run."

"That's the responsibility you chose for yourself when you opted to be a driver in a city where no sensible man with driving friends would drive." I'll admit, it's not the best constructed sentence ever. It confuses him, and he drifts off. Sticks the kettle on. Which is fine. He could only hinder me with what I actually need to do. Besides, he'll need the cuppa as the day wears on. It might turn into a long one.

Oh, well, that's one thing I could say to cheer him up, I suppose. "Not to rub a raw spot, but y'know how you're not killing Holmes unless it all goes balls-in-the-air?"

Through gritted teeth , "…_Yeah_?"

"Do you want to kill the Creep instead?"

Just like that, Christmas is back on the calendar, and I'm no longer the big bad wolf. And I'll have you know it is entirely necessary for me to mix my metaphors, in order to fully communicate the deoth of his joy. It lasts all of four seconds before plummeting back into the pit of perplexity. "Wait, did you not say we were handing him over alive?"

"Oh, we are. But he can't be allowed to get farther than his first interview. How would you like to do it…" I begin, bringing up something to show him on the laptop. Floor plans I did some evil haggling for years and years ago, scans and references of stolen identification, just the usual odds-and-sods, y'know? The how-to kit for assassination, "…at the cop shop?"

"What, like, _inside_?" he grins. Quiet, for now, tentative, in case I pull it all out from under him again. "Not from across the street or anything."

"No. Interview rooms, holding cells, they don't have windows you could use. We'll get you a uniform and everything. You can do a couple of cops, if you have to. And the answer, by the way, is no."

"Answer to what?"

"You were about to ask if you could hug me. You didn't know it yet, but you were. And the answer is no."

Moran can readily accept both my mind-reading and my reaction. He's sort of loving it… Don't get me wrong, I've seen this before, him enjoying the facts-before-the-fact. Going about with that big stupid grin on his face, eyes like light bulbs about to blow. That's not new to me.

But this morning, on the boat, I saw the other side of it. Saw him with, as promised, his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth, and I did not find it funny. Not the intent, silent way he picked out, like a _finger-snap_, the right man from all those dozens of feet away, and followed him, coolly. Without even a trace of tension, I was telling him what Danielle was saying, cueing him in, and he took the shot without being told, sharp and perfect, and his withdrawal was instant. He dropped down to cover thoughtlessly, only just touching his mouth where, on the recoil, he'd bitten his tongue. I've never watched him before, that's all.

So now, although I've always known he gets on like this when he's excited about something, I can't roll my eyes about him anymore. I just let him revel in it. Until he's made himself tea, that is, and seemingly forgotten he has a guest. Then I can roll my eyes. And I can do it again, the way he just sort of bounces off his chair to correct himself, and the way he sort of bounces again halfway across the kitchen, turning back to me with his mouth open to ask. I cut him off, "Milk, two sugars."

"No, not that, I know that."

I'm trying to sort him out with a uniform and get this ID printed somewhere safe, before proceeding to talk a _deeply_ unbalanced, borderline-genocidal maniac (if, indeed, Lions and Unicorns might be considered races, he's genocidal) into walking into a trap set by me, who he likes and trusts, Moran, who he has nothing against, and a woman whose head he was ready to squeeze off at the neck not so long ago. I'm not sure which of those is really worse. The only way I'm likely to find out is if he survives custody and gets to talk. Which is why I'm looking for a uniform and ID for Moran. And as the whole argument comes full circle, he's got a question relating to something other than tea. "…Yes?"

"We've got everything we needed from Dani's contact, don't we?"

"Yes."

"And… and he was the only one that really cared about the Creep so… "

"So why are we still doing this?" A couple of reasons. I've said before, I've said loads of times, I dislike dishonesty in business. So, first things first, we're handing the big fella over because we said we would. Second, we're finished with him. Only would have been killing him anyway. Might as well give somebody else the use of him for a couple of hours, seeing they want him so badly. And last but not least, Moran, my dear friend, I wouldn't be doing this for _any_ reason if it wasn't in the plan.

The big, gorgeous plan, remember? This is how genius ought to be defined; taking two very disparate and very pressing problems, and turning them into one satisfying overall conclusion. It's all accounted for already, in the plan.

* * *

Sherlock

"It wasn't my call." That's Mycroft's story and he's sticking to it. He claims that the promises he made me last night, as regards this morning's meeting, were hijacked by powers greater than his own. The man on the towpath, he says, wasn't his. "I'm glad," he muses, "Losing two in forty-eight hours would be quite the black mark to have against my name."

"Well, that's what's really important, in the end of it all. It's a tragedy he's dead, of course, but thank God it doesn't impact on your reputation. This is a coup for you, isn't it? You can go back to them now and say, if it had been done your way, they'd have Mies by now _and_ none of them would be in any danger of getting stitched into their mattress by night."

We are, by the way, at his offices, where Mycroft is pouring himself a scotch. A large one. Actually, as he continues, a very large one. It's hard to tell if he really is congratulating himself or if I have succeeded in finding his last nerve. I do hope so. The file is ready to work right through it.

"That high horse hardly suits you," he tells me, with such utter disdain it _almost_ penetrates _mine_. "You're not exactly white as snow in all this."

"Haven't you been paying attention, Mycroft? Nobody's come through this clean. Pardon the pun. So the person with the _least_ blood on them probably does get to throw a stone or two."

The first sip of the scotch did nothing. The second seems to mellow him somewhat. There is what may have been, in another life, the edge of a smile on his face. "We're mixing our metaphors, aren't we?" And with that I realize I'm just not in the mood for a mellow Mycroft, or possibly for any Mycroft, and start to stand out of my chair. "Sit down."

"We're not kids at home anymore, you can't-"

"My superiors still have a man posted on the door." He nods across his desk. "Look out. No points for guessing which is the car he arrived in." Since I'm already on my feet, I get up and look. Black Jaguar, tinted windows. Issue so standard it's as if they have a mould somewhere, being shot full of the same material to turn out the same man in the same suit with the same car and the same gun. I'm bored. I don't even work for these people, haven't done very much for them until lately, and I'm already bored. "They don't know you like I know you, Sherlock. They're so very sure you're in league with Mies. You have to see it from their angle; she does tend to keep escaping you-"

"I never set out to catch her."

"Quite."

"Not to mention I'm no spy. You haven't even spoken to them." I don't mean to snap, but I do. It's the way he speaks to me, it's what he's telling me, and it's the fact that I can see clearly how these conclusions were reached. Anyway, he's not even going to dignify that with an answer, I don't think. I wouldn't anyway. He understands better than I do how the minds of his superiors work, and even I've come to terms with it all…

Mycroft continues as though I had never interrupted. "Of course, I know better than that. You're too intelligent to let another human being hang you out to dry."

"Nice of you not to rule yourself out there."

"Whatever the cause of your reticence, _I_ know it's nothing to do with cheap sentimentality. What did you ever do for someone who couldn't make it worth your while?"

That stops me. Completely, mind body and soul, everything simply ceases. Still leaning by the window, it all just stops. Outside, the world turns. People walk up and down the street. A pregnant woman with a pushchair cuts out around the parked cars and curbs and walks down the road. An elderly man in a suit unlike the ones I keep seeing lately stops and helps her back up to the pavement at the corner. A younger man in a messenger's fluorescent stripes comes round too fast and runs into them. Stops, apologizing profusely, but there's no harm done. They don't even know. They can't watch themselves all colliding. No harm done. The world is still turning, somehow. I can do nothing but look until Mycroft prompts me, just my name, as if I hadn't heard him…

"Is that what you think?"

"Am I wrong?"

"No. Maybe not." Perhaps he gets the feeling his broken something, that there's a hole in the conversation that wasn't there before. "Oh, don't stop now. Come on. You were leading up to something. Get to it."

"Once she'd drowned the microphone, what went on at that table?"

"I told you," I say, but I can't remember just what exactly it was I told him, just now, so I stop there.

"I know you told me. Now tell me something I can believe."

The woman outside has stopped to give a carton of juice to the child in the pushchair. She really shouldn't be leaning over like that, looks like she might just roll away down the street. The next young man who comes around the corner too quickly is not like the last. He's on his phone. Knocks her sprawling and does no more than turn and wave his apology. Elderly lady shakes her head at him, but doesn't help the woman up. I don't understand that. Do you?

"She asked me to switch sides." It's not even a lie, if you really think about it. "I declined. Then convinced her the information on the memory stick was genuine; you never expected her to leave, so nobody was too careful about what I was handing her. She disappeared in the chaos when the paramedic RRV arrived. I didn't see her go." I'm just finishing telling him something he can believe (note, if you will, he never asked for the truth) when my phone vibrates. A message. I scan it, briefly. On the one hand, I'm delighted with its contents. On the other, Mycroft is still deciding whether or not he believes me, and I'm about to undercut absolutely _everything_ I just said. "Alright, so Donovan and Lestrade are both still in hospital. Who do I tell where to pick up the maniac?"


	45. Words: Actions

Sherlock

Carl Hedegaard looks young, and unattractive. His voice is even less comforting in real life than it was on the phone with Lestrade. He has a bulk that might be mistaken for fat, at a distance, and a lot of it probably is, but it's possible to tell he could lift the table in the interview room over his head, more than likely with a couple of officers sitting on it. He is that particularly Nordic shade of blond, combed assiduously back. Looks like somebody took a bicycle pump to Mycroft and left him in the sun to bleach… Hedegaard is patient, and apparently untroubled by having been arrested. But above all this, I return to my first observation, the first and most striking fact about him, he looks so young. His smooth, pink, unlined skin goes not match the type and scale of his crimes.

Of course, that's an utterly irrational connection to have made. It's not exactly as if there's a lot of precedent for what he's done. I can't say that all the serial-mass-murderers who have gone before were older men, perhaps with a few scars, peak of physical fitness, possible army discharges. Not that I've thought about that or tried any sort of amateur profiling. Anyway, I've seen Hedegaard's flat. I knew what to expect; a 'student', as Donovan put it. But I look at him now through the one-way mirror and that's the first thing that goes through my head, he looks so bloody young.

DCI Hazell, the one that had me interviewed and so politely thrown out at Scotland Yard, has graciously allowed me this little access. Naturally I can't speak to the prisoner. I'm not all that sure I want to. And Mycroft has _graciously_ allowed me to come here, provided I wear another microphone. In the interests of barter-and-trade I agreed only conditionally; the earpiece stayed at his office. This way I don't have to listen to him.

Rather than do something high-profile, give the flashbulbs an excuse to pop, they brought Hedegaard here, to an old, rundown station nearest to his home. The uniformed duty sergeant on the desk just nodded along when CID wandered in, announced they were taking the place over. It's been nice to watch the police make a viable decision in all of this. Might restore a less wary man's faith.

Here in the anteroom, there's me and Hazell, a selection of officers I'm pretty sure are only here to gawp, a Met psychiatrist, assorted others. Nobody interesting. I lean back here by the door and say quietly to Hazell, "How are Donovan and Lestrade?"

"He's recovering nicely, but she's still unconscious."

Which tells me nothing except that Hazell is fairly useless and, while he might have been otherwise engaged today, hasn't even bothered to check on them. You'll remember, I was there when Sally came round. I was there to be informed that, at some point that night, Lestrade had ceased to _recover nicely_ and gone into a deep sort of delayed shock that came and went from him in waves. So I'll see what happens here and then go and check on them myself. I'll bet no one's even told them about this, that we're all here, that two well-briefed officers, a man and a woman, are as we speak entering the interview room and sitting down opposite the captured killer. I would bet quite a bit on that. You have to, when you play the favourite, or it's not worth your while.

The beginning is classic. Who he is, who they are, what time it is, what the charges are.

It's that last which starts Hedegaard laughing. In his chair just in front of me, I watch the psychiatrist shudder, hard, like he's trying to crack a pain out of his neck. Preparing himself, probably, for the inevitable evaluation.

The first officer, "I don't see what's funny about it. Quite apart from all the dead bodies stacked up, you're in a lot of trouble."

Hedegaard sobers on a heartbeat. You can't do that if the laughter is genuine. He did it on purpose, led them on to this. "I am sorry," he says. "I had thought you must be joking. I am not the Sleeping Beauty killer." His eyes are wide, hands open on the table. A parody of outraged honesty. There is a trace of the laugh still on his voice.

"Did he struggle?" I ask Hazell. "I mean, when you brought him here?"

Hazell shakes his head. It's all he can do without taking his disgusted eyes off what's going on in there. I don't think he quite realizes the gravity of what he's not-saying. Hedegaard honestly thinks he can sit there and giggle his way through this. And I'm not so sure he can't. Do they have anything solid?

"We have an eyewitness," the second officer, the woman, tells him.

Oh, right, so Emilia's still going strong then. Cases would surely go a lot easier if there were more eyewitnesses with the X-ray vision to see through walls and doors. She'll have seen him on the news by now, too; his description will have come back to her in a sudden, perfect flash.

Carl, for his part, is rather annoyed with himself, and makes no attempt to hide it. He balks, "From where?"

"For us to know," says the first officer, "And you to find out at trial. Now, I'm going to give you some dates, and you're going to tell me where you were, alright?"

Ignoring the question entirely, Hedegaard nods at the woman and asks, "She is your secretary?"

She is unfazed, gives no more than a very slight and lopsided smile. They shouldn't answer him. I think they both know that. But the first officer shifts, sits straight and says, "That's my boss, actually."

"Then you are doing something wrong, my friend. Man works for man, like me."

"Now that's interesting," is the reply, "because we interviewed your work colleagues, and your manager is a woman, isn't she? Bernie, isn't it?"

Hedegaard sits back, sloping comfortably in his chair, with his smirk stretched out from cheek to cheek. "Bernie's not a real boss. I am a man, and a man works for a man. With a secretary."

And you can make whatever notes you like, about a warped vision of authority, about a relationship with the female that might be termed 'troubled' at best and at worst 'non-existent', about the delusion of servitude both Mycroft and I noticed in the original phone calls. You can. God knows the psychiatrist is scribbling like there are going to be questions after the lecture. You can say whatever you like about all this.

What you really should be saying is, 'Who is this successful, well-assisted man?'

* * *

Jim

Seeing I hadn't heard from her since her morning coffee meeting, I phoned Danielle. This is about an hour ago. "Just thought I'd let you know," I said, "You can sleep safe in your bed tonight, in no danger of ending up… in your bed, if you know what I mean."

"Because 'we're getting Carl bumped' is just too simple to say aloud."

"Well, quite. Look, long story short, Moran's doing it right there in the interview room. He's wondering if there's anything he needs to know about infiltration."

He was wondering no such thing. He thought I couldn't see him, but he was turning this way and that in front of the hall mirror, loving the look of himself in that black and white uniform, shrugging in and out of the fluorescent yellow coat, trying his hat on and off his shiny bald head. He was wondering _nothing_ about the actual performance, everything about his costume. But like I say, I hadn't so much as heard from her since first thing this morning. Felt like I should ask something.

"Is he dressed as a cop?" she said, and I confirmed. "And he has ID?", which I was also able to confirm. "And he's walking into a police station that's already overrun with officers they don't know. Nobody's going to _look_ at him, Jim; what could he need to know about infiltration?"

That annoyed me. I'll admit it, that really _got_ to me. Because I knew all that. I didn't have to ask her anything, I didn't have to involve her, and she had nothing to give up but sarcasm. Not so much as a handy hint. She has a police uniform in her work wardrobe. She's got one in her private wardrobe too, but that's more the Ann Summers model. Less said about that the better. Surely she has something to say – how to walk like a cop, what to say, who to nod at… But no, no, I didn't get any of that.

"I'll need you to set up something in the aftermath. I'm emailing you exact instructions."

"It's done," she said. On the surface, a very agreeable thing to say. I don't know, maybe I was just irritable with her by that point, but that felt sarcastic too. "Is Seb there? Can I wish him luck?"

"I'm not sure he needs it, but - Moran, stop perving at your own arse and get in here; Dani's on the phone." Bless him, he jumped a foot in the air because I'd caught him. Then he came running with his beaming smile to tell her the details, like a kid talking to the parent who doesn't live here anymore.

Saying to her, "Yeah, of course you get a full report afterward… Yes, down to any tea-leafy patterns in the spatter… Yes, down to the looks on the faces during my daring escape, naturally."

They went on like that for a while. Me, I got a bit of work done, tied up a few loose ends so nobody would be captured or shot. Just in the background, y'know? Silly stuff, really.

Anyway, like I say, that was about an hour ago. Because I sort of guessed they'd take the Creep to his nearest station rather than drag him across town on a horse and cart to be pelted with rotten fruit, I had the afternoon to look into the security. Like the rest of the station, it's a little bit antiquated. For instance, at Scotland Yard they've got swipe cards on nearly every door. Couldn't have had that faked in time. They have an incredible CCTV system, as you might expect. It's supposed to be tamper-proof. What that really means is it would have taken me a few extra hours to tamper with it. Probably would have had to get an outsider in for that, actually.

But lucky for me, I'm not even sure they have interview rooms down Victoria way. But they did when we were Victorian, like this red-brick conversion, this little dive, with the basic cameras that took all of ten minutes to hijack.

Their desk sergeant can't see anything moving. I can watch Moran moving with all the ease and command of a shark through water down the corridor, down the stairs to the basement. I can guide him to the right door.

This makes twice in a day I've watched him at work, after so long ignorant of it.

In his windowless box, the Creep looks like he's holding up alright under the hot lights. He looks relaxed and comfortable. He's talking with his hands as he shapes some concept for the watching officers. Whatever he's talking about, they're not so happy with the topic as he is. There's a scruffy gent asking with his eyes when he gets to start throwing punches, an icy type with her hair scraped back thinking of bringing back the firing squad. Actually, as I'm watching, I think I recognize the argument those big thick hands are putting forward, clawing towards each other like two warring parties. I think he tried to explain this to me once and I was too busy hoping Moran would call. I think this is what Dani told him not to mention.

_Thankfully_, then, Moran knocks on the door. Says, "Excuse me, Sarge."

The woman turns round. I can _just_ make out, "This had better be-" then _bang_, and I never find out what it better have been.

She got it between the eyes. There isn't so much as a heartbeat before the second bullet goes through the back of Scruffy's head. He didn't even have time to turn. Carl's big doughy face has lit up. Thinks he's getting rescued, probably.

The door of the room next door, where the analysts and ghouls were gathered, starts to empty. "Moran, unfriendlies on the corrid-" But I don't get to finish either. Because Carl Hedegaard thinks he's so safe, so comfortable, Moran just turns away from him. Fires two shots down the hall, and hits another two heads. Anybody who doesn't retreat into the observation room hits the floor. Then, as a couple of cops start down from upstairs, Moran turns back to Carl.

I'm not sure how many bullets were left in that gun, but I think Hedegaard gets most of them, and it's only the very last one that probably ends the pain.

Those who have come to stop him, Moran moves out of his way in great swipes, like a bear and no less powerful. And then he leaves, dumping the distinguishing features of his disguise in the grim, grey-tiled lobby. He walks out of there in black trousers and a white shirt, top couple of buttons undone, looking clean and casual and utterly unhurried. The gun, he drops carelessly into the gutter; no need to worry about that. It was fresh today, never knew the touch of unguarded flesh and he'll never be near it again.

All of this done he says softly, "Still there, Jim?"

I have to clear my throat, swallow the dryness out of my mouth, just to tell him I'm sending him a car.


	46. Carte Blanche: Bete Noir

Jim

"Well, that's him sorted," is Moran's considered opinion when he lands back. But Moran's a hired gun, who looked like a cop an hour ago, and now in his deconstructed cop's uniform looks like a barman. None of these three professionals he's been are quite qualified to decide whether or not Carl is 'sorted' right now.

"Not quite. We still need to find out what he told them before you got there."

You should've said. I could have lifted the tape."

Again, it's very sweet of him to say so, but there's so much wrong with that sentence I can't even tell you. For once, I shouldn't need to have said. That ought to have been pretty obvious. For another, the tape doesn't make that much of a difference. He didn't kill everybody from the observation room; there would still have been someone about who's been there, heard it. And the third point, the one that makes me actually quite proud of myself, I was looking out for him. If he'd had to actually go into that room, and actually concentrate on the tape rather than who was at the end of his gun, he stood a much better chance of being trapped, even captured. That would be no good at all.

There's one more reason, and the only one I wanted to admit to him. "Had to look like you were there purely for the Creep."

"Is this all part of your master-plan you swear I'll understand later?"

"When did I ever use the word 'understand'? I swore you'll see the favourable outcome for us and it'll set your mind at rest." He nods along with all this like it's exactly what he meant. God, he's so useful sometimes it hurts. If there's any implication whatsoever that he had any other motive than to murder the murderer, the 'master-plan' he mentioned could fall apart. But there is absolutely zero danger of that, because murdering the murderer _was_ his only motive.

I need to surround myself with clueless, useful people, who trust me implicitly and are very good at their jobs. This is the solution to _all_ of my troubles.

Speaking of troubles, "Moran, can you get through to Danielle?"

"Still engaged."

"When did you try last?"

"Like, two minutes ago?"

"Try again."

She had a job to do, remember? I sent it through to her? And I told her to be on-call so that when I found her an opportunity she could leap dynamically into action and get something done? And now, par for the course, bloody typical, what could I possibly have expected?, she can't be reached. But this time, finally, Moran calls my attention, throws the phone to me, "Ringing."

This had better be good. I wait, patiently, expecting her to answer to dear 'Seb', sounding like that little best-friends-forever smile on her face, and then drop into brutal, guilty bitching the second she hears my voice.

That's what I'm expected. What I get is, "That you exist, and I'm very sorry to tell you this, but your name."

Okay, I'll start with the easy part. I'll start with the part that doesn't scare me. I'll start at the start. "Good to see you're filling the hours, Dani."

"Keeps me amused. Anyway, you like me better when I'm busy."

That's true. Nice of her to be thinking of me. "Who were you on the phone with before?"

"Disappointed customer. I sold him a serial killer who went out of date mere hours later."

"What'd you tell him?"

"_Caveat emptor_."

"Very clever. Now, this other business -"

I had _hoped_ Carl would have been a very good boy and said nothing of any interest. That way he could have gone to his end with a clear conscience. Except for, y'know, all those people he killed… But in terms of me, with a clear conscience. A murderer, yes, but not a traitor. Then again, what am I going to do to him? There's no punishment to mete out anymore.

That's a lesson for me. Carl; beyond punishment. Mycroft; alive and kicking…

Danielle, with all the passion of a good newsreader, reports. "I can't get hold of the tape, or a transcript, not yet. If you want, I could steal it when it gets stored to evidence. Currently, we have two corroborating accounts, telling us he spoke about you and your role in his _work_, and that he gave up your full name. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

Bad. Yeah. It sounds really, really bad. It does, it sounds bad… "It's not going to matter."

"I'm sorry, maybe you didn't hear me. Your _name_, Jim."

"It's not going to matter." There is nothing but dead, distant silence on her end of the line. "Oh, go on. Tell it all to me like I don't already know. Point out all the flaws I've already thought around in a loud and sarcastic voice. Go on. That's your _thing_, isn't it? Never trusting my judgement no matter how perpetually I prove you wrong?"

"Carl. Hedegaard."

"I'm getting away with that. You'll see."

Another long pause, and an even longer sigh. "Sir, yes, sir. However, since you show _no_ regard for it whatsoever, might I request permission to protect your identity. A service, sir, absolutely free of charge, _sir_."

"Why not? You're going to do it anyway…"

Sneaks and secrets, little manipulations. I mean, that's a ballsy move right there. She's going to work to my benefit. For my _protection_, which apparently I'm not concerned with. But she isn't going to tell me what she's doing and if she does it right I'll never know it was done at all. That is a very ballsy, very brave move, that right there. Maybe not clever, but there's something to be said for brave.

"No, I won't actually. You made your feelings clear over the Hedegaard business. Tell me to stay home and I will."

A little, a very very little bit, of consideration. "Do what thou wilt."

* * *

Sherlock

Hedegaard is dead. Eight minutes and thirty-four seconds of interrogation before he was shot, along with the two interviewing officers, DCI Hazell and one of the local police who shouldn't even have been in the room. All dead. The psychiatrist went to pieces. That's not important. I just thought I'd mention it. Situations like this, any old irony will do. The gunman left his coat on the stairs. Then his hat, tie, epaulettes and identification were all found in the hall upstairs. The gun itself was under a parked Astra on the street outside, brave and bold and no doubt totally useless.

In my mind, I compile everything I remember from the interview room. Piecing it together, I make every attempt to get it verbatim. Two things keep stopping me. For one, the echo of the gunshots. This is nothing to worry about. It was a very small, contained, underground space, and a number of very loud bangs. It's the resultant tinnitus, that's all. That the psychiatrist's babble is mixed in with the noise is a memory trick, and because so little of it made any real sense.

Anyway, like it said, that's nothing to worry about.

The second thing, and the greatest irritation, is how little of it there is. So much time was wasted in threat, in entrapment, in discussion, before the real questions were even asked. As a result, while some interesting facts were revealed, there are no real answers.

'Why?' for instance, is a question that rarely comes up until the psychological evaluation, and is rarely ever answered truthfully until deep into the prison years. What do I tell Donovan when I speak to her next, and she asks me if the bastard gave them any reasons? What do I tell Lestrade when he asks why Hedegaard chose to target him specifically?

I know exactly how those conversations will feel. It'll the same as when Mycroft came for me. His ever-present cohort came to pick up the tape from the interview room, and Mycroft _personally_ came for me. Now, don't get me wrong, he didn't look at me with the expectation and disappointment that Lestrade or Donovan will. Quite the opposite, in fact. No, Mycroft could hardly contain his glee long enough to ask how I'm feeling, watching all those people get slaughtered.

I just went with 'fine'. He accepted that, just as I knew he would.

You see, on that tape they confiscated, Hedegaard basically admitted to the existence of a mastermind. In his case, anyway, there was a helper. Somebody was behind the scenes. He answered Carl's questions. He watched over him. When Carl needed a rescue, that was all organized for him. Whether a mastermind or not, this person represents a dangerous, mercenary sort of intelligence.

Don't you find that terrifying? Because it might just be the massacre talking, but I do. I find it awful. Mycroft, though, Mycroft is _over the moon_. He is holding to the name, murmured reverently by Hedegaard in his raptures, as one might to some souvenir of a lost lover. That name is his next step. He has stopped even covering that fact up. Or he's just so damned happy he _can't_ cover it anymore.

Actually, I find this _more_ terrifying, now that I think about it… Between Mycroft and this new factor, this _Moriarty_, it's a bloody close call.

The one thing spoiling my brother's day? He wanted me to call Mies. For once, I didn't have any problem with helping him out.

My greeting to her was simply, "You said 'alive'."

"And he was. What's the matter?"

Containing painful levels of anger, "He is no longer."

"Oh, steady on! I handed him over in good condition, happy and with no chips or cracks. Barring the one through his brain, that is. What was done with him after he changed hands is not on me. What happened anyway?"

"Like you don't know."

"Not a clue, gorgeous. I'm assuming he's dead, but that's the size of it." It was lies. All of it. She didn't react to the name of the suspected mastermind, continued to insist she knew nothing about the new killings, talked and talked because clearly she had nothing to say. In the end, I made very sure she knew there was no protection anymore, that my brother and his crowd would be coming after her, and if she wouldn't answer me she'd answer them.

She laughed. Said sweet and dark, "When was there ever any protection? You don't have to threaten me."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything. My hand was hanging next to me, with my phone still in it, disconnected from her end, and I was staring into the back of the passenger seat headrest, not even thinking. And next to me, just a voice, Mycroft said, "Oh, well. She'll be captured. Between that and the lead from Hedegaard-"

"_God_! You just don't care, do you? What about the killer? The victims, the families, Lestrade, Sally Donovan?"

"Who?"

"Christ." Couldn't breathe, by then. "Stop the car." He started _talking_ again, something about reports and debriefing. I asked _again_ for the car to be stopped, but nobody was listening. When I started to open the door anyway, they stopped the car.

I'm under no illusions. I'm being followed. Being given my space, yes, but only for now. He's not letting me go that easily. My initial instinct was to score, and I nearly went through it, just because I knew he was there, that he'd hear about it. I wanted him to know how I felt and it seemed to be the quickest, most efficient way of doing it. Not to mention I wanted it.

Sorry, I've gotten my tenses mixed up; _want_. I want it.

It was hell or the hospital. Ultimately, I chose the latter. Lestrade, when I got here, had already been sent home. Donovan's still here. Sleeping. The only sign of any visitor since I was last here is a thin, cheap Get Well card on the locker. It is signed from 'the lads at the station'. So I'm here, in the chair by her bed, just waiting, and not knowing what I'm going to tell her when she wakes.

* * *

[A/N – The author knows what you're thinking. She's 95% she can pull this off. It'll be brutal and epic and beautiful, or it'll collapse like a bad souffle and I'll slope away hanging my head... Bear with, folks.]


	47. Distracted:Alert

Sherlock

"We ate there," Sally says. She's been staring into space for the last couple of minutes. I took it for a side effect and let her. But this is what she's been figuring out the whole time, what she comes back with. "We ate at the place where Hedegaard worked."

"Did we?"

"The sandwiches. When I brought you the phone recordings. That's where he worked. I knew I recognized the address." This is a better response than I really expected. I've just sat here and, for lack of any clever way to put it, told her the whole story of what happened at the East London station. It's an interesting non-sequitur, but it's still a much better response than I have any right to expect. "He could have made those sandwiches. Sherlock, I feel a little bit nauseous."

"Have you seen the pelican outside the window?"

"What?" But she looks. It sounds ridiculous, but that was the point. Now she looks for the pelican. If I'd handed her one of the cardboard kidney dishes from the table at the end of the bed, she would have thrown up. Now she's not thinking about being nauseous, she's thinking about the pelican. "What're you talking about?"

"Oh, isn't there? I could have sworn…"

"Isn't it funny," she says, "the way things go out of your head when they don't mean anything? It's days now since they told me where Hedegaard worked and I'm only just making the connection now… We might have seen him." Oh. This is a very different thought to the one I believed her to be having. "He could have cleared our table and I don't even remember."

"Frankly, I'd just be satisfied that you remember your own name for now."

She shakes her head. Then mumbles, "You're right, you're right." Then, "Actually, no, you're still wrong. We still never had to let him go on lack of hard evidence."

"That's one victory I can't take away from you."

There's just the start of a smile on her face. It could use some work. And I could use the task, to focus my mind, to make just sitting here that much easier. Then, just as it's looking as though there might be a gentle way to pass an evening on the cards, the door opens. Lestrade.

"I thought they'd sent you home?" I say. This too is clearly news to Sally.

"What're you doing here?"

"You heard about Hedegaard?" He nods. "Donovan hadn't." It confuses her, me suddenly reverting to her surname, but I'm trying to encourage him, trying to keep that in his head.

It pushes his attention back to her as well. "Yeah, that's why I came back; we need to get you out of here. The journos are moving over the city in packs. It's only a matter of time before they get to this place."

She nods, in a bleak, exhausted sort of way. Then seems to be waiting. After long seconds, "Well, you'll have to get out and let me get dressed, won't you?" Lestrade opts for an old-fashioned embarrassed mumble, turning his back before he even looks for the door. I'm almost ashamed to say it, but I do the same thing.

Outside in the hall, side-by-side, I can hear but not see his fingers tapping the wall, wanting a cigarette. I sympathise entirely. For a long time a question hovers, unasked, between us. Then, as I open my mouth to speak he cuts in, "Don't ask how I am."

* * *

Jim

Alright, this time for sure, Carl is sorted. The man himself is dead, his interview has been reported on, and an invaluable insight from Moran, that when he shot the woman, he could see very clearly the image of a rabbit in the splatter, has been duly noted.

"Moran," said I, "if I were seeing bunnies in the way the blood fell at a scene, I'd keep that to myself."

"You asked for details. Anyway, I told Dani I'd look."

Oh yeah. 'Tea Leafy patterns'. I thought they were joking.

But what I mean, bunnies and all, Carl's over. As is Danielle's little huff of this morning, whatever it was about. She has deigned to re-enter our society. There's a knock at the door and Moran goes, half-running like a kid expecting a parcel, because she's brought the cat with her. "And he's starving," I hear her say from the hall, "So take the baseboards off the cupboards and let him work." Moran then abandons his guest, and comes back to the kitchen carrying his saviour. Awkwardly. He's more of a dog man, but he knows when he's onto a good thing.

Dani saunters in a minute later, phone in hand. And I swear I'm just nosy. I'm not a suspicious person, just a curious one. "Anything interesting?"

"Hijacked the account access of a Detective Sergeant."

"What if he tries to use it?"

"She's on sabbatical in Thailand. Was running with the drugs squad for a while, went a bit native…"

"Clever. Who set that up?"

"I do have my own network, y'know. I was a very successful thief already before your intervention." Yeah, but my best hacker got shot this week, so she could share. "Anyway, what do you need me for?"

Moran should probably be listening to this. He's a bit busy, though. From what I can see, he's pulling his kitchen apart to give the cat access, promising dear Valentin all sorts of pleasures and treats, a tree full of bluebirds, a thousand kitty virgins, all the Whiskas he can eat. Dani's watching all this with the closest thing to 'maternal' I've ever seen on her. That's what disturbs me, that's why I have to start talking. Moran can be filled in later on.

"We stumbled across Holmes. Now we need to find another of this Diogenes herd. I've a name and a picture for him, but that's all. He's another invisible, can't turn him up anywhere along the usual lines. Open season, Danielle; who can you talk to, what can you do?"

"What's the name?"

"Clayton Underwood." And then, remembering my researches, "The Third." Mr Bruce, sweet, lovely, late-departed Mr Bruce, do you remember? He told me Clayton Underwood Eye-Eye-Eye was the odds-on favourite to climb to the next gap in the organization. I need him now. Clearing up Carl and his mess was phase one. Underwood is phase two.

"Dear Lord, what possesses parents… Sounds like something to pass on to Charlie, Raffles, that sort of crowd. Can't promise anything, but I'll make enquiries."

"Whatever you do, be discreet. He can't know we're talking about him."

"That's the problem, isn't it? Because anybody I contact, that's exposure so-"

"I can do it." This is Moran, piping up. He's on his knees on the tiles, watching the stalking cat go about its business, but he's been listening, and he answers. And it's not that we don't trust or believe him, it's not that we don't expect him to be able to help in these situations, not that we don't have faith in his abilities as a people person. But I turn over the back of my chair, and Danielle holds the table, leaning to look around me.

It's left to me to state the obvious, "Beg pardon?"

"Bruce, when he was spilling everything to you. Didn't he say Underwood was a military man?" As is Moran. Or used to be, but when I was putting together his current identity, I left him his service record. Anything I do that goes through HMAF, he's the primary contact. Jesus, how did I _not_ think of this? "If he's made any impression, and he'd have to for this Diogenes thing to have picked him up, shouldn't be too hard to lay hands on." Me, I'm just kicking myself. God knows why Dani holds her silence and stunned expression. Moran looks up, gets all offended. "I'm good for more than just brute force, y'know."

Says the man trying to aid and abet in an animal's hunting…

* * *

Sherlock

The problem with this particular hospital, and especially with leaving it, is that all roads eventually go past the front step. The front step has now been annexed by the press hordes Lestrade was talking about. Them and, beyond them, another black Jaguar with tinted windows with a bored-looking suit leaning against it. You see my problem, yes?

There's a car waiting at the back for Donovan and Lestrade. It's not a panda, but that makes it no less obvious as police property. Journalists know that. As soon as that car goes past them, they'll know there's nothing here to see.

In an ideal world, Lestrade could drive that car past on the left, while all the hacks are looking right. By the time they looked back to the front step, he and Donovan could be gone. And the journalists would wait still, carefully watching a door that doesn't have anything to give them, not knowing that. In an ideal world.

I only came down for a smoke while the nurses perform final tests on Sally. Now I find myself discussing internally how to make a dozen or so wary vultures all look right at once. I'm trying to convince myself that it can't be done, that there are no options. This, of course, is a lie. There is one very clear option. You'll have spotted it yourself, no doubt. It's not exactly making itself look inconspicuous. Half the press-pack already has one eye on it anyway. It is making it very difficult to pretend it doesn't exist.

With a resigned sigh, I go back to Lestrade. Sally is just coming out into the hall, looking shaky, the lump on her head still large enough to be visible. But she's been okayed to go home, it seems. I walk up and tell them, "Press are here." Lestrade hisses, swears. Sally just looks afraid. "I think I can probably help, though, if you want." I explain to them what I can do. They're grateful. It's refreshing to offer a viable option and not be point-blank refused…

Makes it a bit easier to do.

It's simple, really. All I have to do is go back to the front of the building. Lestrade takes Donovan safely away. While I'm waiting for the green light from them, I pace, look down into the faces of the journalists, turn away from them. Twice I walk away and come back, as if to see if they might have left in the meantime. As you might expect, they don't.

When I get the message from Donovan, I let them see me checking my phone. Let them see me brace myself, turn up my collar, tuck my face in behind. Then I charge out, move through them as fast as I can, shoving as many as possible aside, and climb straight into the back of the black Jag.

Because if there's one thing a flashbulb loves better than a wounded officer, it's a tinted window. They can't resist. It's like an instinct with them. They gather, they crowd, they all look right. Out the far side of the car, I watch Lestrade drive away. Sally's in the passenger side, looking back towards me. Can't see me, of course.

* * *

Jim

Moran's back at that mirror of his again. He's worse than a budgie. He just likes to be spruced when he goes to see anybody army-related. Like he wants to set an example; you too can leave the Forces and (so far as I can tell) wear nice shirts and have a fine, glossy head.

Just as I'm about to tell him tonight would be wonderful, that just because nobody's going to catch _him_ for the deaths at the police station doesn't mean we're not on a timer, that mate of his cuts in, protecting him. Dani raises a question she already knows the answer to just to distract me. "Your plan for Holmes… I mean, I have my suspicions what that is. And I don't see where Underwood fits in. Why not just feed this to Mycroft?"

I don't get the chance to tell her I know her little game. She's probably got the bulk of this figured. Once again, it turns out Moran really can listen and, in this case, _preen_ all that once. He leans away from his mirror without looking away; "How come she knows the plan and I don't know the plan?"

Because her mind is sick and twisted. He, on the other hand, is getting all wound up about the impression he makes when he goes to visit a crowd of people he hates with a passion, in order that he may discreetly pump them for information on a very sensitive topic, a task which is very much out of his comfort zone. And that's just about the most normal thing in the world.

By the way, he's killed six or seven people in the last thirty-six hours. You might want to write that on your hand or something, because God knows I'm having trouble holding onto the fact.


	48. Unseen:Invisible

Jim

Moran left, with the brief that a physical location for Underwood would be ideal, and that a phone number would do in a pinch.

It's a very strange; Underwood and I are utterly unacquainted. I have clapped eyes on only that one picture of him. I learned some very basic facts about his work from Mr Bruce (and _could_ have had a lot more from the same source, but it doesn't do to be bitter about these things). The rest is just conjecture based on my own experience and the people he does business with. And yet I know everything I need to about him. I can go to work on him, happily, effectively, with a reasonable degree of certainty over the outcome.

You don't need to be best friends to know where the weak links are. Actually, I find it works a lot better if you stay as far away as possible. Find out what you need, be aware of anything that might balls it up for you. The rest can keep. It doesn't help. The people I know best, I can't think of anything I would ever do to them.

I'm talking, of course, about Moran. And about Dani, too, all arguments aside. I don't think it's anything to do with arguments, actually. I don't think it's anything to do with whether or not you like somebody, or what's between you, or what they've done. Really. It's just the getting-to-know. All that stuff, it clouds you up, and you find yourself thinking a thousand things all at once. When it comes to those two, I could stick the knife into any of a thousand vulnerable places, burn down a thousand things of irreplaceable value. But that's the point; that's not effective. Quantity, as it were, over quality. I know them well; just not enough to know which of a thousand cuts will kill.

But when you hardly know somebody at all, it's that one, single, most important, cornerstone little thing, that you're going to find out first.

And what was the first thing said to me about Clayton Underwood (Mark Three)?

_Underwood is the favourite to move up_. _Not much of a race. Just waiting for him to prove himself._ Mr Bruce said that. Have I told you about Mr Bruce? He was lovely. He's dead now. He didn't get to tell me an awful lot. I think he really wanted to, y'know…

Anyway, keep it simple. That's old advice, but there's a reason it has lasted.

Moran has yet to report back. Danielle's just watching the cop account she jimmied open. 'In case,' she says, 'they start to do anything except panic and cover.' They haven't, as of yet. We've been giggling at the frequency and quality of the updates appearing on the case file. They need to do this, apparently, so they can say it's an active investigation, a priority case, all those things they say on the news. Which you should also see; there's a sort of war going on between journalists, police and politicians over who can keep the straightest face, all of them trying to pretend they're not just glad the bastard got what was coming to him.

Somebody's going to say it. Moran has placed his stake on Boris Johnson; safe money, easy money. Dani was reaching straight for the PM himself, until she was told she's not allowed to help it happen, so now she's with Paxman. And they both looked at me with hate, eyes full of 'why didn't I think of that?', when I told them, _told_ them, "Dirty Harry."

And I know what you're thinking; I should have better things to do than giggle at headless-chicken trevors and the nation's public figures playing that game where you're not allowed to laugh.

I don't, though. Not really. So often I find people do the bulk of the work themselves.

Danielle reaches behind to open the back door. Before she can light a cigarette, fill the place up with acrid smog, I try telling her, "You might want to go home and get pretty yourself."

"Might I? Where am I going?"

"Maybe nowhere, but if Moran can get a lock on Underwood, you'll have a meet, soon as."

"And what's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"…Nothing, really. Please don't smoke, though."

"Okay." Simple request, simple compliance. Why didn't we try this before? "Are you going to be shouting down my ear this meeting, or do I freewheel?"

"There'll be no trouble. I'll give you bullet points, if you want?"

"Most kind," and she takes her notebook from her handbag, passes it across the table.

Then from somewhere behind me, there's a thump, and a scrabbling noise. I have forgotten about the on-going mouse hunt, actually, but it sounds like it might be nearly over. Danielle gets up to go and check on it. While she's behind me, out of sight, I'm more able to say, "Anyway, shouldn't you be out there keeping my good name out of the gutter?"

"Bit late for that. Carl saw that well and truly muddied."

"Out there, then, keeping me from following it."

I don't know if she means to leave my question unanswered. Maybe we confused each other while we were equivocating. Or, most likely option, she gets caught up watching the protracted and brutal torture-murder of Simon the mouse. Certainly, when I turn, she's beaming with pride at the furrier of her favourite killers. Whatever the reason, she doesn't answer.

And me? _I let it go_. I know, I'm as shocked as you are, I swear. But that's what happens. I let it slide. It's almost like she gave me that opportunity and I took it.

We move on quickly, easily, and with a degree of respect and intelligence. The mouse's screaming seems to be focussing her. With that extra few seconds' thought, she anticipates what I'm writing down for her and says, "I can make him believe me. Don't doubt that; God knows I don't doubt it."

"But…?"

"But what if he asks me for proof?" So I add another bullet point on, right at the bottom. Additional dialogue, if you will, to supplement the script. The mouse is drowning out the sound of my writing anything down. She must think I'm purposefully ignoring her, making a point. "Your arrogance never fails to amaze, darling. _Alexander_ would blush."

"Or is it my faith in you? You always jump to these conclusions, dear. Anyone would think I didn't like you." I can feel her smiling. And it's not just because the bloodied warrior is slinking out from under the cabinets to lap clean his death-stained cloak.

She's watching this ritual of righteous ablution when Moran calls. "Have you got good news?" I ask him.

"Yes."

"Then I can happily tell you you are officially mouseless."

"Oh, bless the whole mob of you… Well, I've got a number. I think it's office rather than personal, though."

Doesn't matter. Contact's contact. "Give it to me." I scrawl it down at the top of Dani's cheat-sheet, waving her back to the table. She can do it from here. She's already dialling while I'm exchanging farewells with Moran. But by the time I've hung up, she's done the same. "What? What's the matter?"

Dead casual, nothing to worry about, she shakes her head. "He's not in. It was an answering machine."

"Perfect!"

She rolls her eyes, reverting to form; "I'll just leave him my number, shall I, wait for him to call back?"

I reach over, and with my pen I tap that final point. She slowly smiles, getting it. It all starts to click, composing itself in her head, while she's calling again. "See? Arrogance, maybe, but not unjustified."

Her and her voice are known factors, a pair of puzzle pieces already on the table. Building around them. Mycroft is another piece. Ambition and conflict are pieces. Competition. Phone numbers are already a piece of it. What it says at the bottom of the page, making them all snap into place, _Make it sound like Mycroft already knows all this_.

* * *

Sherlock

Everything. It doesn't matter what I tell him. I'm testing out different lies, little variations on the story I tell each time. And my brother simply does not notice. The reason for this is that he already 'knows'. He has watched the CCTV from the police station, he has read the statements of the other witnesses, observed the utter cluelessness of those left clearing it up. And so he 'knows' everything.

Some honest advice; never believe that you know _everything_ about anything. Because the essential fact you have missed will come out and dance in front of you naked but for a spinning bow-tie and some distressingly positioned sparklers and you won't even see it, because you don't believe it exists. Never believe you know everything about anything. You don't.

Of course, Mycroft is ticking all the boxes. What else could I ever expect from him? No, I'm not questioning whether or not he knows how many are dead and who they were and in what order it happened and the preliminary psychological profile of the probable vigilante responsible by heart. He definitely knows all that. He's told me twice as much as I've been able to tell him. I'm not questioning that at all.

So what, then, could he possibly be missing? If you have to ask me that you're as bad as he is.

He was not there. Mycroft was not standing in the corner of that secondary room, looking through the glass when the woman was shot. Injury to insult, after being asked if she was a secretary. Her subordinate didn't even have time to _look_ at his killer. Mycroft was not pressed to the wall, looking into the hallway as DCI Hazell went out (God knows _what_ was going through his patently-unarmed mind) to save the day and he got shot too. Mycroft didn't hear the sick, high-pitched bark of the psychiatrist's first laugh, before his mumbling started. The other two shots, nobody I was familiar with.

Hedegaard smiled. The whole time. From the first shot until almost the last. Throughout it all I thought, I was so sure, I thought I _knew_… The shooter had to have come for him. Hedegaard had to know this was his own slayer he was smiling at, didn't he? And maybe, in all the chaos and noise, I imagined it but… But there when it all but over, when the shooter turned back to the interview room, when the gun steadied on him… It looked to me as though his face was falling, as if regretting his decision not to run. I can't be certain, though. You never know everything about anything. Even if you were there, watching it happen, you never know everything. I shouldn't need to state that this is especially pertinent when people end up dead. You never know everything about people die because no matter how closely you watch, how nearby you might be standing, you simply were not there.

I wasn't thinking about this. In the hospital, next to Sally Donovan's bed, even when we were talking about the murderer and these new murders, I wasn't thinking about it. I am now. I am and I don't know that I can stop. I look back, and I don't see it like a video, but in snapshots, useless, blurry stills. The whole thing took less than forty seconds, so why shouldn't it be blurry, but still, still, I… I don't know that I can stop. I blink images, like a camera. Shades of gruesome, one body falling on top of another, two swelling pools of blood and the difference in colour where they met, all of it scored with echoes in a narrow hallway, with deafened chatter, with disjointed mumbling which has yet to stop.

And Mycroft just sits there and talks like he knows _everything_. How could he? How could he even dream it?

That's why I make little changes every time. I give Hazell different coloured ties and Hedegaard a different band on his t-shirt, move the small scar on the shooter's third finger around his hand. It doesn't matter. Nobody's really listening anymore.

I wasn't thinking about this. There was Donovan to worry about, and then Lestrade. Then there was getting them away. Now all at once I'm safe, and so far from safe it's a sick, sick joke.

In the midst of all this, there is a brief interval while Mycroft takes an urgent phone call. I blink like a camera and therefore I don't get it word-for-word. Just the tone of his voice changing, and from the corner of my eye the slackening or straightening of his posture to denote, in order;

'Oh, hello there, old friend.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'No, sorry, utterly ridiculous.'

'Since you put it like that…'

'Now look here, sir-'

And finally, most distractingly, defeat. That, I could question. In fact, when the phone is put down, I pipe up, "Sounded interesting, if nothing else." Hoping he'll throw me something, just something very small, something else to think about, that isn't the psychiatrist mumbling, the local constable curled under the dim glass, praying while he pissed himself.

Nothing happens.

Actually, he picks up the phone again, ready to make some calls of his own. "Mycroft?" Nothing. I'm not there, apparently. Not sure where I am, not definitely not there. Far, far away from there and everything. "Mycroft, please. A nod will do." I don't know who he's talking to now, but they have his full attention. I'm not there. I don't understand. I was a minute ago and now I'm not. "Oh, look," I try, staring past him out the window, "A pelican."

Nothing.

"Mycroft?" Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, like when the shots were fired and the gunman gone, and there was nothing, except the echo and the tinnitus, and the mumbling, the _incessant_ bloody mumbling, which has yet to stop. "Mycroft, please. Please." And maybe there's a turn of his head? That could be a wave, maybe, or just a way he has of rubbing the top of his ear between thumb and forefinger sometimes, particularly if he's nervous, or he's done something wrong. "Mycroft?" I say, getting up. "Mycroft, I'm going to go now." Yes! _Definitely_ a wave, definitely a turn of the head. _Definitely_. "I'm going to go now and score, alright?"

Nothing. And silence is as good as a positive, isn't it? Silence is an admission. Yes, little brother, off you go, _knock yourself out_. That can't be what he's saying. He doesn't hear. I said I was going, so he thinks I'm gone.

Is it as simple as that? Is it as simple as telling people something they'll believe? Like the psychiatrist, mumbling, who has yet to stop. Who was, perhaps, reciting something he learned once. Saying, "Though these behaviours may seem abnormal, indeed disturbing, to the outside observer, to the subject they are absolutely logical. Where delusions of grandeur are present they may even be thought of as moments of incredible genius. It is essential to analysis that action be understood from the point of view of the actor, from the moment of genesis and even before, in the subconscious triggers, the reasons, if you will. Whether or not those reasons are justifiable is often not so clear-cut as initially thought."

Foggy justification and a silent assent. That'll do.


	49. Overdo:Indulge

Sherlock

It's like getting off a boat, when you still have sea legs but you're not at sea anymore. This is about walking when you're high, did I say that? I meant to. That's what I'm talking about, anyway. It's like sea legs. That's a funny phrase, sea legs. Like legs made of sea. That makes no sense whatsoever. Water can't bear up the weight of a human being. Unless it was frozen, but then seas don't freeze, not since the ice age, not with their salt content… Ah! Of course, it's the salt, in a high enough concentration, that could bear up the weight of a human being, thought it would almost certainly be pushing the saturation point, rendering the water itself completely useless and… Why did I want to know how sea water could hold a person up, please? I have no idea, by the way, where I'm walking to. It's not supposed to matter. I haven't done this in a long time, but I'm almost sure it's never mattered before. See, it used to be fun, it always used to be an experiment, to get up and walk whilst under this particular influence. The nature of the chemical reaction is that you shouldn't get up and walk, it doesn't want you to. It wants you to stay on the floor, provided you are somewhere which is not life-threatening and, if you're in a position to be choosy, which is reasonably warm. So getting up is a process. You learn it afresh, like a child getting up onto two legs for the first time. Then you roll, but the world does not roll with you, and you lurch side to side, staggering, like sailors on deck in a storm and _that's_ how I got onto this. This topic, I mean, this particular thread. Obviously it's not how I got onto _this_. That had nothing to do with sailors. How I got onto this is a different matter altogether. It would be more fun, actually, if it _had_ had something to do with sailors. Well… I can't actually imagine how that particular set of circumstances might play out. Maybe the word isn't 'fun', but 'harrowing'. Maybe that makes more sense. It would just mean there was something to tell, that's all I'm really saying. There's not really anything to tell. There is a story but it's not interesting enough to tell. Which really just means it's an awful story. Oh, no thank you, I don't want to hear any awful stories, that would be boring.

Speaking of, here's a boring story; a car's just pulled up next to me and stopped. You can't see who's in this car because it's got dark windows. If that's keeping you from knowing who's in that car, you need _help_. It just sits there, expecting me to get in. I just stand on the spot and look into the sky, planning my route away from the crouched, prowling thing by the positions of the stars. Maybe if I just look long enough at stars it'll go away. Like if I don't move it won't be able to see me, the way certain reptiles are. That would be nice.

But it doesn't. It opens a door, _he_ opens a door, my _borther_ opens and door and leans out. "Get in," he says.

The only thing unusual or interesting about this story is that this car is silver rather than black. I wonder who's driving him.

I ask, "Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"Even though I really don't want to and I'm thinking of running away?"

"You couldn't, even if you had the wit and energy to try." That is a right and true thing and I think it's the novelty of hearing rightness and trueness out of Mycroft's mouth that makes me relent. He moves over and I get in. He can give me a lift home if he wants. It's the least I deserve. It's the least he can do. This is all his fault. Something very deep and settled inside me _knows_ that, that Mycroft led to this somehow. Whether or not I can remember the exact process is totally irrelevant. I'm offended you'd even ask me to explain it, frankly. Naturally, then, I won't bother. If you don't know I'm not going to be the one to tell you. After a while of my righteous, utterly vindicated silence, he says, "Looks as though you've overdone it a bit."

Absolutely, Mycroft. Determinedly, and at great cost and effort, I have overdone it _considerably_. Thank you for noticing. Thank you for… Thank you, Mycroft. I feel corporeal again. Existence has come rushing back all at once and come upon me like a wave, and with such force. I feel, to use the common parlance, like myself again. All you need to know, really, isn't it? And you may say, because I have thought the same thing myself, that I am taking the easy way out of my problems, medicating them away? You may say that, and you would be too bloody right, and why shouldn't I? What could be wrong with that? Explain, tell me, one good reason, just one – why shouldn't I take the easy way out? If there was some way to make your own life easier, to take the pain away from you, and if you thought it was _worth_ it, then why wouldn't you? Of course you would. Whatever it takes. People do whatever it takes to ease their own way in life. If the cause is good and you act in the interests of the cause, then…

"I have news," Mycroft sighs. He sounds… sad, almost? That doesn't feel like the right word for him, but that's what I hear. Sad. Like all communication has failed and now he can only pass on a message.

"Good or bad?"

"You'll think it's good."

"Okay, then tell me."

"Somebody knows who murdered Hedegaard." Oh no, no, we don't have to talk about this, you don't have to talk about what happened, I don't have to be thinking about that anymore. Me and the needle had an agreement; I don't have to be thinking about that anymore.

"But it's not you."

"No."

Oh. Oh, _right_, right, I get it. Do you get it? Do you see? It's really very simple. Mycroft didn't come looking for me because this is his fault. Nothing like that. No. He wants me safe and sober, yes. But only so that I can help. So why, why shouldn't I, one good reason, shouldn't I, just one. Shouldn't I?

* * *

Jim

Dani's hanging on every word of Newsnight, waiting for Paxman to win the bet for her. She seems so sure, and so desperate all at once. She keeps call him little pet names, making eyes at the screen, as if far away in television centre he'll suddenly feel the power of that flirting wash over him. Confidence will ensue, allowing him to mould to her will and laugh out loud about the death of the Creep.

I'm keeping an eye on her. She's tried to pass off a wry chuckle as a laugh, so far. It's the sort of task I would usually leave to Moran, but he's out in the garden. He's got a freezer bag full of half-eaten mouse, cocooned in tape, and he's burying it. He _says_ this is to stop others coming to feed on the corpse. Y'know the way mice are vicious cannibals with no instinct for self-preservation, or self-respect, for that matter? Yeah, there's a tribe of those out there just waiting to descend and feast. That's Moran's story and he's sticking to it. And _maybe_ it's true. Maybe I'm being judgemental, maybe I have a twisted mind. But he was all wound up about sharing his home with that critter. That, and his insistence on having Valentin with him at the graveside, I'm thinking maybe there's something else going on here. Less to do with hygienic disposal and more to do with deep, deep psychosis.

These are my nearest associates. If I concentrate really, really hard, I can make them and all their… _quirks_ seem sweetly ridiculous. Like the character on any given American TV program who is played by a comedian whose face you know from somewhere. On a night like this, I can make them seem that way.

See, there's not that much for me to do but wait. We need Underwood to get back to us before we can move. Not that there's anything to worry about. He'll come through, of course he will. It's too good for him to turn down. Dani did a good job of the message.

First she told him all about Hedegaard. About his murder. She told him she knew where to find this murderer. Then, "So now you're asking yourself, what has all this got to do with me? This is police work, surely. But I'd have a word with Mycroft Holmes before you go passing any of this on to your local bobby."

My guess? Holmes and Underwood are tearing pieces off each other as we speak. I only wish I could watch that happening. I want to see them, in their awfully-terribly-horribly civilized way, behaving nonetheless like pack animals. You know how it is with wolves. The young bucks have to fight it out amongst themselves before they can start working towards alpha status.

The beauty of it all is, it doesn't matter how much Holmes gives up. When Underwood calls us back, it won't matter what we tell him either. It doesn't have to useful, or alluring. It doesn't even have to be true. Actually, if we were inclined to say nothing in response to him but a time and a place, he would be there. We are far, far too good an opportunity to him.

A conman explained this to me once. This is years ago, before everything really got started for me. He told me that if you set a trap with the right bait, you don't need to say a word. They'll do everything for you. If you promise them exactly what they want most, their heart's deepest desire, they'd walk off Beachy Head to follow you. He was telling me all that the way an old explorer might talk about Shangri La. Unattainable, a dream of perfection. Now here I am and I've got it. I should track him down and tell him. I want to see if it gives him hope or makes him top himself. The odds, in my mind, are fifty-fifty.

Speaking of odds, Paxo's starting to look awful derisive. He's this close to making himself a very powerful enemy. Especially when _my_ horse has somehow managed to avoid the rampant press entirely. Short of an invisibility cloak I wouldn't have said that was possible, but he's done it. So Jerry up there may just think twice before he gets to giggling when I'm not even in the race yet…

"Dani?"

"Shh." From the arm of her chair, I get the remote, and turn on the subtitles. "Ah. Yes, dear?"

"Y'know Underwood?"

"Not personally, yet."

"Not important. I've just got this really awful feeling he'd be a lot of fun to keep on the hook for a while. He could prove useful, I mean."

"Oh yeah. Yeah, he could." Daft woman. This isn't what I wanted. I wanted her to convince me I was doing everything right, and that no mistakes are being made. But she just sits there, with her eyes following every word on the screen, still looking deep into the dark, chocolaty eyes of nightly news' answer to the Inquisition, and nods. Maybe she's not really listening to me. I'm about to ask if she is when she continues, "But the point is, Underwood isn't the objective. He's a means to an end. He gets us to Holmes. Yes, he could be a bit of a laugh, but we don't _need_ him for anything else. You're planning the right thing."

"You don't know what I'm planning."

"I didn't, until you asked me that. You're not going to tell him anything, are you? It's the same plan as before. We draw him out and he gets his face shot off. This time, though, the issue won't be over who did the shooting, but who ordered it done."

Trying not to sound whiny or offended, neither of which I am, "It's not the _same_ plan as before."

"I didn't mean it that way. Bottom line, if Underwood gets us to Holmes, we do what it takes."

She shrugs. That, it seems, is that. Simple as. See? _This_ is what I wanted; absolute reassurance, no more nor less. You see, I have something for her. I wanted her to earn it, to deserve it. Now I feel happy enough to give it up. "Sorry," I tell her, "about lately. I know I'm not using you to your best." Again, that's something which can distract her from Paxman. Probably because she knows I'm talking shite. She has been worked hard and I'm not sorry. "All I've really had you doing is speaking for me. What I mean, you haven't really had any real thiefy, thief-type thieving to do since you were wounded."

"Your point?"

"I just think maybe it's time you got back on the horse."


	50. Relaxed:Wound Up

Jim

Do you know what I've got? Do you know what I've got that _nobody else_ in the world could possibly have?

Well, hold on, first things first; first I have an extremely relaxed looking thief curled in a ball at the other end of the sofa, looking precisely as if she might give herself a bath any second now. And no, I don't mean go upstairs and run herself one. Which reminds me; I really have to find a new place of my own, somewhere I can lock the door if I want to, somewhere I can sit in hermetically sealed comfort while I get their reports via video messenger and nothing messier than that. I would always say there's no such thing as taking too much pleasure in your work, but it's like they say, the exception proves.

Miss Mies is looking dreamily into space, into the dawn outside the window, a little slack-jawed, moving only in long, slow blinks, like a cow. I have called her twice already. Nothing has gotten through yet. Therefore, you understand, it's not ignorant of me to start snapping my fingers at her now. "Oi!"

"Yes, James, you lovely man? And have I said thank you, already? For the opportunity, I mean. And I genuinely mean that, it's not an Apprentice 'thank you for the opportunity', it's out of my heart."

Less I know about her swollen, overflowing heart the better. "Appreciate the sentiment, love, but could you get round to telling me how it all went, please?"

Not right away; no, first she has to laugh, as if she's only just remembering what all happened. It is a low, filthy laugh, the same as when I tell her some pleasingly diabolical idea I've had, except it's all in her head, so it's a purely private pleasure. You know this feeling, don't you? When you don't know the joke? How frustrated, how _angry_ do you get when you don't know the joke? Plus there's the fact that she laughs herself into a wrinkle, folding over the sofa arm, and I see for the first time she's still got her gloves, hanging out her back pocket. "Really?" I ask her, grabbing them away. "Seriously, though?"

Two pairs. Apparently this is a trick professionals use. Rather than opt for the black leather that film and television would have us believe is traditional, you're supposed to wear a pair of latex lab gloves, to keep all your DNA in, under a pair of thin cloth ones, so you can still feel any keypads and such under your fingers. Or in case you get caught up in some light gardening along the way.

Don't laugh. It wasn't Danielle, but one of her friends, who got stuck waiting of a roof once and gave the mark's greenhouse a good pruning while he was up there.

Don't look at me like that either; I just use the people, I don't claim to understand their minds.

"Relax," she tells me, while I'm stripping the latex out of the cloth outers. "_Relax_."

"Why, am I killing your buzz? How'd it go, Danielle, simple question."

Bemusedly. "What have you got in your hand?"

Something nobody else in the world could possibly have. Fair point. "Yes, it went 'well', but 'well' is not an answer."

"Oh, you want details?"

_…No. No, Dani, you're alright. Go home, go to bed. Your work here is done. Sleep it off. No, in fact, go to whatever vile market can provide you with a morning's entertainment, take him/her and go home and go to bed. Work through all this and come back to me fresh and clean. _You see, I've made a grave mistake here, by asking her for details. She has misinterpreted that question. She thinks I've asked her for a play-by-play. She has lit up, grinning, looking really rather excited about the idea of doing that. She has _animated_, and I think I preferred her the way she was before.

"I mean," she begins, "for an off-the-cuff job, no prep, it was incredible. There's not a lot of people who can do that, y'know. I'm not entirely comfortable with it myself. But I knew you needed me so…" She shrugs. Lucky for me, I'm not getting eye contact. Her eyes are up in the corner, drifting, the mirror of the profile picture of any given internet poseur I've had to put up with while researching something or other. "I did it at his offices. You remember; around the corner from the cathedral?"

Me, having unwittingly asked for it, I get the whole rapturous monologue, full of cunning and vocal traps and the _gestures_, ugh… Anybody watching this without sound, I wonder what sort of story they'd think she was telling me?

For your benefit, I'll shorten it down a bit. I'll keep it to the simple facts. Y'know, the way something like this ought to be related? Not that she's no fun to listen to, but I just worry sometimes how much she gets out of it.

The offices she's talking about, of course, are those that belong to Mycroft Holmes. I didn't tell her to go there. I just told her what we needed and she decided that was the place to look. For whatever reason, there were security types hanging around. She saw them in the street at the front and back of the building, and a car patrolling the area. There was a brief scare when the driver 'looked right at her', but he must have had his eyes closed. Maybe he just wasn't all that familiar with the case. One way or another, she was allowed to continue. So Dani made some innocuous noise at the back of the building. When the car passed them again, the gents there flagged it down, to let them know about the activity. (Yes, this is the bloody shortened version. Don't express your pity, I can feel it in waves.) But that meant the gate to the side-alley was unguarded, and the driver couldn't see, because they were standing in front of him. Then she was in, and _oh, for God's sake_!

Listen, right? The circumstances don't matter to you. They matter to me because I need to look for faults and exposure and what I might expect to come back on me. But they don't matter to you. You need to know only one thing. I am holding in my hand something nobody else in the world could ever have.

I am holding a mobile phone.

Don't laugh. Don't dare. Men have died for less than laughing like you were about to.

This particular mobile phone was, at some unknown and meaningless point in the distant past, allocated to one Mr Mycroft Holmes. It is not his everyday phone. He would have noticed that missing in minutes reported it, then it becomes useless to me. No, this is something he's probably forgotten he has. This was there in _case_ something happens to his everyday phone. He'll never notice it's gone. He won't even know that it _was_ gone; I intend to have Dani put it back.

This is not just any mobile phone. This is an SIS mobile phone.

* * *

Sherlock

I am no longer trying not to laugh. I was, for a while, but it was only really making things worse. Kept spluttering, could feel myself turning red. It was probably just annoying Mycroft more… Oh, there's a point. But I can't go back now. Now that I'm laughing I can't stop. Couldn't even if I really wanted to.

You see, Mycroft is in a bit of a rage. Which is funny in itself, but just wait. He thought he'd take advantage of my inebriated state. He'd sat me down again and now that I wasn't walking anymore, walking was very much off the menu. I'm still where he put me and I'm honestly not sure I still have feet. I'll check in a while, but sitting up that far is going to take a bit of preparation. I'm meditating. And laughing. Yes, that's what I was telling; he thought he'd take advantage of the fact that I can't run screaming from the room, can't even put my hands over my ears, and he'd tell me the source of all his woes.

It was clearly affecting him very deeply. I could go through all the little signs and signals but… You know what an aggravated person looks like. There's no sense getting too stuck in. But that's why I started out trying not to laugh. I was being respectful. But it's a _very_ funny story, however he feels.

Mycroft has been… _hijacked_, is how we'll phrase it.

I've mentioned before how his whole mastermind theory wasn't about saving the world, wasn't about queen and country, but simply about his own advancement. I've mentioned it and anybody with half a brain should have spotted it a dozen times over. He wants to take this seemingly ridiculous idea (which he seems to be right about) and _prove_ it. This will mean his bosses cannot ignore him or his ridiculous instincts. This is all very basic.

I have mentioned also, and you know, that he's had some very useful contact with what-may-be the organization of said-mastermind (if such a thing exists). And when you take all the qualifiers out of that sentence it's really quite impressive. You'd think he was doing quite well, if I told you that.

But it would seem he has taken one too many pot-shots at said-organization, the apparent spokeswoman of which would no doubt grin like a fool if I were to use the term 'Deep Throat', so I won't, except that I just did. Tired of rejection, they have decided to bestow their affections elsewhere. And please, yes, read all the innuendo you like. As I said, it can only bring those uncrowned heads great pleasure.

They've found a new favourite spook. A much friendlier ghost too, it seems. His name is Underwood. They're going to give him Hedegaard's murderer. A show of good faith, maybe, before other requests and favours might be exchanged.

Mycroft, to use a very technical term, is _fuming_. Really. T-minus-not-very-long until actual steam starts firing out of his ears. To his mind, all the work he's done is about to go down the tubes, and the glory is to be grabbed by this Underwood fellow, right out from under his nose.

If he didn't stick his nose quite so high in the air, it might be harder to snatch things from under it, but I haven't told him that. Mostly I'm laughing; not a lot of breath left after all the laughing.

Why? Why is it funny? Because it _fits_.

"It's not fair," I say, as soon as I can. "Is it?"

Mycroft sneers, looking just precisely as if he'd like to spit at me. I'm willing him to. It wouldn't be the first time it's happened, but the first time from my brother. Personal trauma. I'm not looking for excuses to stay back on the junk, I promise. That's not what this is. If I'm honest, I intend staying back on the junk one way or another, just now. But an excuse is always a handy thing to have. In case somebody asks an awkward question. Or somebody awkward asks. Reminds me, I should check up on Donovan. Not now, obviously, later, when I'm sober, before I'm sick. Have to time that right.

Oh, Mycroft's still here. "Fair," he says, "Doesn't come into it." And just like that, speech leaves me again, because laughter has returned. "What on _earth_ is the matter with you?" he snaps.

"Do you even realize what you just said?"

He hadn't, but I think he can see where I'm taking this argument now. Rolls his eyes, gets all uppity. "I've told you before; you don't belong on the moral high ground."

"I haven't done anything very wrong _lately_. Puts me one up on you. Oh, and I wouldn't mention my brave and logical decision to get as high as physiologically bearable; that would just be you being judgemental. That's not objective morality, if such a thing might be said to be possible." Listening to myself, I'm really quite proud. Didn't quite manage the word 'physiologically', but it was still recognizable. "Anyway, it's nothing to do with who's right and who's wrong. It's facts. If you could learn to stop second guessing everybody all the time, you'd get along a _lot_ better. You're not smart enough to outsmart people you don't know." Oh, that stings him. He's never thought of it in so many words before, and it stings him to be told there's something he can't do, and to believe it.

Now this _really_ isn't fair. I'm the one looking for the personal trauma and there it is all over Mycroft's face. Really, I don't think anyone is smart enough to outsmart people they don't know; some knowledge of the target is essential, prerequisite, _logical_. But I'm not telling him that. Why should I soften the blow?

"You should leave," I say. "I can't think of a single way I can help you. If I could think of one, I'd pretend I couldn't. Even the _villains_ are turning their backs on you, Mycroft, and it's not out of fear. I think they've got the right idea."

It could be the opiates talking, or some more permanent cruelty. I'm actually surprised. Sometimes, when I can't move, I say things, and I listen to them as if they were said from far, far away. I'll listen and think, "Oh, that daft bastard, why would he say a thing like that out loud…" And tonight, well, this morning, whatever, _now_, I'm not feeling that at all. I'm hearing it come back to me and thinking, "Yeah, fair play. More than he deserves. 'Bout time you started doing right by yourself, my faraway friend."


	51. Post:Pre

Sherlock

Mycroft left first or I did. It doesn't matter. The upshot is the same. I have no intentions of coming back down again. It's really just a case of accepting the facts. The facts are as follows; I was doing very well at quitting. This, however, took place in isolation from the real world. Re-entry of the real world, or as real as it's getting anyway, has triggered a series of one-off lapses. I had been thinking of these as moments of great stress and personal weakness, something I'd have to learn to deal with, something which would be unavoidable as life goes on (as it almost inevitably will). I had been treating them as isolated incidents. But really, when we all get very honest with ourselves, that's not true, is it? No, the truth is, I just want this. The truth is, this is me. And maybe it's about time everybody, including myself, just accepted that.

There's this awful feeling in my stomach like I've been here before, said all this before, thought it all and heard it all and played it all out before. And like I've had that feeling before, and everything just repeats itself, and I just repeat myself. Stop me. Please, somebody come and stop me.

I come to a door I know, with names sprayed on it in five different colours from five different years. I know I can knock on it, and wait. While I'm waiting, light feet approach behind me. A pair of bony hands hook onto my shoulders, and a sudden but negligible weight hauls up onto my back. A giggling breath at my ear as I lean back and put the weight back down on the feet.

"You're proper too tall and bendy for that game."

And she's proper too skinny these days to really be a surprise. She's an eerie sensation, like the touch of a ghost.

I remember her name this time, because I'm not trying to forget anymore. Her name is Ruby. In the past she has been useful and detrimental and wise and mad, the way everybody is. Nobody is ever consistent enough to really bother caring about.

She won't take her arms from around my neck. I'm still bent right back, with my head on her shoulder, too close to see anything except the corner of her grin and the edge of a bruise by her eye, an ugly weal in the clear space beyond that. She keeps scratching it. I reach up to take her hand away from it and she finally lets go of me.

Still waiting for the door to open.

"So," says Ruby, "you're, like… back?"

Yes. Wholeheartedly. Determinedly. This is my decision. This whole endeavour is pointless, but so is the whole endeavour without it. Between happy, comfortable uselessness, and the kind I've been striving for these last months, I choose the former. Of course I do. It's only natural. I've tried the other, it's not working, let's move on.

To Ruby, I just shrug.

"That's shit, mate. I really thought, if anybody were gonna do it, it was gonna be you, y'know?"

"Why?"

"'Cause you're better," she says. It costs her nothing to say this. She is admitting no failing in herself, or none she was resigned to a long time ago. She says that like a fact and one with which she has long been reconciled. "You're just, like, better, love."

"I don't think you really know what you're talking about."

She looks at her feet. When she shrugs, her collarbone sticks out so far you could lift her up by it. "Probably not."

On the other side of the door, there are footsteps. Someone is coming back to answer. I've already shoved my money through the slot, so they'll only hand it out to me. I don't know what to do. I don't. For a long second or two, I just don't. After that I'm acting and I still don't know what to do, it just happens. I step around behind Ruby, like it's still her game. I take her hand, the one with the crumpled couple of notes in it, with me, and turn it up behind her back. And when the door cracks open at the side, I push her forward.

She accepts the little packet and I let her go and start walking again. I still don't know what I'm doing. Neither dos Ruby. I know there's no sense in crying, and so I don't.

But what do I do now? I don't want to be sick again. I can't keep doing that, I don't want to anymore. What do I do? My brother used to keep a stock of methadone, but I'm not calling him. Don't want that either, it's sickening in itself. No, that's out. Mies owes me a joint from a _long_ time ago, forever, was it only a year since? But that's not exactly an option either. Lestrade. Lestrade could stand me a drink at the very least. But no, no, he'll have his family back tonight and anyway, he shouldn't be encouraged. He'll end up like me, Christ's sake… What do I do? I need _something_ to make the come-down easier. All of these things I'm thinking of I could get for myself but… But I don't want to be on my own. That's the problem. I don't want anyone to see me like this and I don't want to be alone. I've been alone, and don't get me wrong, it's been by choice, but I've been alone through all of this.

…Someone else has been alone as well. I try not to think of it as an act of desperation and just call the number.

"Hello?"

"Sally."

"Sherlock. Hi. Oh, and thanks, by the way. For earlier."

"Don't mention it. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm alright," she says. Brave, yes, but untrue. "It's quiet." And it's killing her. You can hear this all over her voice. She hates the quiet. It's not peace, to her, it's just a lull. She's still terrified.

"Right, so you don't fancy a drink then."

A long and longing pause. "Best not. I'm supposed to be low-profile."

"Just don't wear that t-shirt that says 'I was the wounded cop', then. Where will I meet you?"

* * *

Jim

Dani and Moran don't understand why we're celebrating. I keep telling them, there probably won't be time tomorrow night.

"Yeah, so by definition this isn't over yet," Dani says; she is as set on this argument as I am on mine. The difference is, my argument is right and sensible. She's just being pig-headed. "This just feels like a lot like tempting fate, that's all."

She is making the case that things could still go wrong. We have an event tomorrow morning, and a couple of wrap-up meetings thereafter. Things still to happen, ergo, things could still go wrong. It's a case she's making really well, actually, with examples and everything. A lesser man would be paying attention. But it's a totally fallacious case. Nothing is going to go wrong. I know this. I wish she'd stop just talking about it.

"Tempting fate?" and she nods. "Well, you're drinking the wine and eating the food, so it must be well-tempted already."

"Oh, I never complain when somebody makes me dinner."

"You do a good impression of somebody who does."

"Seb, back me up here, would you?"

He questions whether or not to get involved. Then, very carefully, with deep thought every couple of words. "Dani may have something of a point. For instance, we could show up in the morning, and they're onto us. They might have back up. They could have someone like me watching over them. I might miss the shot-" At which both Danielle and I go into a gale of laughter. He gets all pleased with himself, too, all puffed up. Flattery had nothing to do with it.

"No, but I'm with Seb," Dani coughs, as soon as there's any breath in her. "So far as I can see, this plan still has more holes in it than a pair of fishnets."

"Then you can't see very far."

"Explain it to me, then." That's a challenge. Oh, look at her, that's an outright _challenge_. Folded arms, hard eyes, the sly grin barely trying to hide the fact she's perfectly serious. Moran is waiting for the answer too, looking at me from the corner of his eye. Which is rich; I _tried_ to explain it to him. He just didn't quite manage to wrap his head around it. Maybe he's hoping Danielle will be able to break it down for him later on. Danielle adds, "If we all follow form, I'll be the one has to actually chance my neck talking to these people, so-"

"I wouldn't worry about that. You'll know when it comes to it. Whatever you have to say, it'll be clear to you."

"Honestly, sensei, I'm not sure I'm happy with that."

"Oh, for the love of _God_! Can we just have tonight, please? I'm going to want to celebrate tomorrow and not be able to, so can we, please, Christ, just have tonight?"

Danielle rolls her eyes, raises her hands in defeat like _I'm_ the one being melodramatic about this. Moran, on the other hand, he's off in one of his little confusions. I used to interrupt, ask what he was thinking of. I used to try to help. Over time I've learned it's best just to leave him to it. He gets there in the end, and if I only wait… "So… your idea of celebrating is cooking for other people?"

"If it's too late to make decent reservations, yes." Dani is muttering prayers and alleluias in the background. For once, they don't even sound sarcastic.

"Have I told you my birthday's coming up?"

He hadn't, but Danielle had. Decent reservations are already made, gifts chosen and ordered. I'm getting him that MP I promised when I took away Mycroft. This is just basic preparation, the same principle I apply to about everything in my life. Have good information well ahead of time and act on it appropriately. That's logic, and so many people just ignore it. I know the next two days by heart. I _know_ everything that could still go wrong. I also know it's not going to. I know there'll be no time for nice meals tomorrow night, and I know nothing's going to interrupt us for now. I could explain, but everything they're saying would still be valid. I could lay it all out and they still wouldn't trust it.

Fool-proof doesn't always sound fool-proof. You just have to have a little faith in yourself, that you're guessing correctly. Not just beyond reasonable doubt, but beyond doubt.

There is _one_ more complaint to come before they drop it. "Confirm one thing," Danielle says. "You have no fears about what way this job ends for one or any of us."

"None."

Then that's it, it's over. I can deal with that one; I was expecting it. There was a fear in them, for just a second, that my predicted ending was going to leave somebody incapable of celebrating afterward. But that's not true. Afterward, we're all going out to get thoroughly trashed, and I make sure they're aware of that. Actually, in the immediate aftermath, even Mycroft'll probably be dancing on the ceiling. Not with us, but he will. He'll have plenty to dance for, anyway. Then time will pass and he'll realize what he's stuck with. A slow burn sort of a pain. They'll enjoy that. They'd be enjoying tonight if they'd just stop bitching and relax.

See, I like celebrations. Wherever they happen to fall, whatever the cause, I like them. That's the point of them, I suppose. Life is too short, and too nasty, and too brutal. If you're intelligent enough to have spotted that, you're too intelligent to be able to forget it. This knowledge becomes both the ache of living, and the only way to know you're still alive. And there are, in my experience, only two things which can alleviate the effect of these facts.

Firstly, preparation. As I've said, as you've probably seen tonight, the only people who can be quiet and content are those who are absolutely sure of their outcomes. The man with his money on a fixed horse does not stand and bellow encouragement next to the track. He sits back happy and knows he's alright.

Secondly, celebrating. The minute an excuse offers itself. Whether anybody else wants to join in with you or not.


	52. Muffin:Toast

Jim

I wonder how little Holmes got away with telling him. Underwood, I mean. Obviously he's trying to hold on to some scrap of the glory, so full disclosure was off the table from the beginning. It'll be interesting to hear what he has to say. Actually, it'll be a very good gauge for me, very useful. After all, I intend to let Mycroft live. Sadly, I don't think he's going to take that as a gift, and be sweet and grateful the way you might expect. No, more likely I'm going to make something of an enemy in him. He won't be able to do anything about it, so that doesn't bother me. But this, today, this will be a good indicator of just exactly how smart he is.

Underwood shows up relatively well-informed; Mycroft is thick.

Underwood shows up with patchy knowledge, but the salient points all covered; Mycroft tries to be cleverer than he really is.

Underwood shows up with a tidbit or two, nothing important; Mycroft's not doing too badly.

Underwood shows up misinformed and making a chronic fool of himself; maybe I start keeping Moran with me when I get my new place. For the first while, at least.

Grades D-through-A, if you will, detailed above.

And as I'm sat waiting for it all to kick off, I have two idly amusing questions for myself. Y'know, the kind of thing a gentleman can think about, over a long and luxurious late breakfast. I make no bones, and you make no mistake yourself, I picked the spot for Underwood's untimely demise because I like this particular establishment for breakfast. Anyway, nobody's here yet. There's time to let you know what's running through my head.

Firstly, what sort of grade of a villain am I expecting Mr Holmes to be? Based on previous form and all the experience I have of him. Which is limited, second-hand, and mostly the fearful recollections of Moran and Danielle, but there's some meat on the bone anyway. And secondly, what grade of a villain would I _like_ him to be? The first question is easy. It's a matter of simple quantification and analysis. I take the man himself, his known actions, the effect he has on those around me, scale it all up to my level and make a percentage of it. We're looking at a C student, B on a good day when he knows his subject.

The second question's a bit more dangerous. Kind of thing you can only ask on a warm morning, a storey above the street, elegantly brunching on the terrace. It helps if this terrace is on one corner on a crossroads, and on the other is a multi-storey car park where a hit man is watching from four floors farther up still. In fairness, though, few things are hindered by a text which reads, _I had sugar puffs u jammy bastard_.

To keep his mind on the task, _any sign of them yet?_

_When a skull cracks on pavement looks just like when you just split that egg_.

I look down at what _was_ the perfect globe of a poached egg, now collapsing with the beauty and grace of the Roman Empire as it spills delectable yolk over the muffin beneath. That's what it is, by the way. It's an egg, and yolk. And it's not a skull or what would be coming out of a skull and _oh_, dear, God, I've thought about it now… Can't push the plate away; he'll see that. He's won, if I do that.

There's work for him in that, y'know. I'll park him up on a roof with a pair of binoculars and, instead of his rifle, only his razor-sharp talent for ruining everything with a seal-like clap and an idiot grin.

To hell with it. Anyway, they'll be here soon, Dani leading Underwood to the slaughter. Don't know what's keeping them; all she had to do was show up, not get shot and say, "Do you want the Holy Grail?"

"Yes," he would say.

"Then get in the car."

And then they would have been here ten minutes since. It could all be done. I'd be enjoying the chaos on the street below, along with my eggs, because Moran wouldn't have been bored enough to wreck that for me. I should start giving her a script. She clearly takes far too much pleasure in playing these little scenes. If she had a script I could tell her to stick to it.

Where was I? Oh aye, second question, dangerous question. Because no sensible man wants enemies. And if you must have an enemy, naturally you want him to be thick. D is for Dunce. That way you know, whatever he pulls, you'll be able to manage it. No more irritating than a fly on a hot day; it's a mild annoyance and you expect it when the sun is out. Me, I know I'm a smart, capable person, so a B or C student, as I suspect Mr Holmes to be (c.f. the answer to Question One) would be no bother, and stands a chance at being periodically fun. C-plus, B-minus, that's what I ought to be shooting for here.

No pun intended. 'What I ought to be having Moran shoot for here'; that was intended.

I just wonder what it would be like to meet an A, y'know? I don't know any. Even my friends, if they turned on me, they're a B-plus on their very best day, and that's with all their knowledge taken into account. It would take vast quantities of cunning and luck for Danielle to ever truly get one over on me. Or Moran, I'm just having a much easier time picturing this with her. Not that I don't trust her, but if anybody were ever to turn… Not that it would happen. It wouldn't. I better eat this egg before mental perception gains too strong a stranglehold over my physical experience.

But an A… There has to be one out there. I just wonder what they're doing, that's all. Maybe they're some high-powered businessman, like me only legitimate, or they're running a country somewhere. Or maybe they're the kind of person who has had trouble all their life turning intelligence to any realistic use. The world won't let them be incredible and they can't see a way out of it like I did. They're wasting away somewhere, in an office cubicle or behind a till or taking your order please, sir, do you want the chamois dry for just another two pounds and _screaming_ every second of it because they're being run by wankers. Deliver me from the tyranny of idiots. Not that I've experienced that, not that this was my prayer for about five years round about Millennium time… It's just a daydream. Like looking down, where the two roads trip over each other, where desk jockeys and bike messengers and weekday shoppers crowd, waiting for the traffic lights to change… It's just a daydream, but it could be any of them. He or she, whoever, could be down there, and see what happens to Underwood and…

And nothing. Not the way life works, is it? Whoever it is, they're probably on the other side of the world. Just for the sake of balance, keep the world turning.

As I said before, Moran is across the street from me. Diagonally, over the crossroads, there's a hotel. Not an especially nice one. Not a dive either. It looks, from outside, the way all the chain hotels do. Clean, sort of neat, very depressing. And yeah, it looks like a visiting shooter might be staying there.

Two cars stop outside it. The first is Underwood, with Danielle. The second, at no distance at all and no attempt at discretion, is his people. It's alright, though, there's enough of a gap.

Everything looks so civil as they get out of the car. His driver even gets the door for Dani. She's loving that, let me tell you. Bit of manners goes a long way, and is something we have yet to see from Holmes (which is partially why I downgraded him from a B-plus). Not for the first time, I get the fleeting idea I'm making a mistake with Mr Underwood The Third. Not for the first time, I hear Moran in my head, telling me in no uncertain terms that if I put Holmes any farther from his reach he'll kill me instead.

Danielle is a step ahead. She touches the door of the hotel. The rest, you should know by now. You've seen it before. A quieter shot than you might believe. Everyone in the street looks up, except for Underwood, whose head has been knocked forward, and he looks at his shoes a second before he buckles in the middle and flops to join them. The crowd scatters fast, then slowly gathers, holding off Underwood's attendants for just long enough to cover Danielle's escape.

Blah, blah, blah. So on, so forth.

All the usual.

* * *

Sherlock

Sally's still asleep. So far as I know, and from the way she drank last night once she got started, I don't believe she has anywhere to be this morning, so I'm trying to do things as quietly as possible. Quietly and _quickly_. The hangover's not too bad, but it's only delaying the real agony. I've bought myself maybe a couple of hours, if that, before the proper sickness strikes. Couple of hours to decide what way I'm going to deal with it. I'll be honest, I still can't face the prospect of another withdrawal. And nothing happened last night to show me any reason why I should. Not that I expected it to. That would be a bit much to ask, of anyone or anything or any short stretch of time. That's not what I was looking for. Anyway, it didn't happen.

So this morning, like a good houseguest, I get up, make myself presentable, and leave the bed made the way I found it.

Don't look at me like that. She told me to sleep here. No, that still didn't come out right. How to explain this… The simple facts; ever since Hedegaard, Sally's having some small psychological issue with beds, and has made an art of finding excuses to sleep on her sofa. Including drunkenly pretending to already be asleep. I wonder if she's got a point; would that have thrown him off? Sofa cushions, after all, don't hollow out so well, and she has the sort of sofa with small drawers beneath it.

And so she is shivering, stiff-necked, where any grateful guest ought to be, and I am relatively well-rested. It's not good for her, not when this week it was thought she might have a serious skull fracture. When she was stable enough to be properly x-rayed they didn't find anything. Woman must have a head like a breezeblock. I saw the size of that man; he couldn't have been concentrating, that's all I can say. But she still ought to be taking better care of her head and upper spine. Neither of us was in a fit state to discuss this last night, but I'll… Well, maybe I'll phone her tonight. She'll take advice or she won't, but maybe I can talk her into it. Especially now that Hedegaard's dead.

Of course, I'd have to talk her into that first.

I wonder how much she'll remember from last night. I only came back here because someone had to bring her home. Couldn't just have put her in a cab and walked away. It wouldn't have been right, wouldn't have been friendly. She was crying. You don't leave someone alone when they're crying, not unless they ask you to. She didn't, did the opposite. She asked me to stay. And you don't leave someone alone when they're…

When they're afraid. And she hates herself for fear, thinks it's a weakness. "Forget it," I told her, "One way or another, he can't get you now."

"That's my point. Why am I still scared, why don't I just forget it? It's fucking stupid." I had to tell her that was wrong too, but that just sounded like I was changing my story, humouring her. And whether it was true or false or kind, it wasn't working. She can't listen. There's nothing I can say that'll get through because she already believes. Believes she's weak and wrong to be afraid, believes it's her own fault, believes if she was a better person she could force it out of her mind. That's why I stayed, when she asked me. I don't know how much of it she'll remember. Or what'll happen if she asks me to stay again and I can't because it's score or crash and I don't want her to see me crash.

I should go, shouldn't I, before she wakes up… That would be better all around.

What I do instead is leave her bed neatly made and go down to the kitchen, and put the kettle on for coffee.

That's the noise that wakes her. Waking is too much, and she stumbles, half-running, upstairs to the bathroom, where she is viciously sick. The worst of this passes, and she realizes it was noise that woke her, that the noise is still there. The policewoman in her wakes up, and she comes creeping back down. Wary. It's a bit much, actually, the way she slows, practically stopping at the door, the way she won't even look inside. And the way she elbows the door open, sends it flying into the wall, the noise shattering the fragile balance of both our headaches, that's just too…

Then I look at her. "Oh, God, Sally. I'm sorry. I didn't think." She's shaking, drained. Her heart is beating so hard last night's t-shirt shakes above it. Because the last time she heard unfamiliar noises in somebody's kitchen, Lestrade was about to be murdered and she nearly was. "I'm sorry," I say again. She sighs it all out, but she's not moving. Stands there holding her head.

I take a mug with me and guide her by the shoulder to the table at the other side of the room, set her down with the coffee in front of her. "First things first," she mutters, hoarse, "You're still here because… Did I…?"

"You asked me to. Nothing… _untoward_."

Another sigh. She straightens her shoulders, forces her eyes open. "Right, then. Second thing, have I done anything to apologize for?"

"Absolutely nothing." That seems to be the end of the interview. I go and pour another coffee and join her. "Jesus," she says, now that I'm at eye level and she can see me, "You look how I feel."

"My deepest condolences. Clearly we're neither of us long for this world…" I… I just did it again, didn't I? The woman's terrified of being brutally murdered in her sleep and I keep talking about death. "Sorry again."

"I wouldn't worry about it." Awkwardly, wincing as though the memory is a struggle, "I did a lot of crying last night, yeah?"

Carefully, "No more than might reasonably be expec-"

"Stop being so bloody nice."

"A _lot_ of crying, yes. But there were a few rousing choruses of 'Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead' in there as well, so it all balances out in the end."

"You never heard me sing. If you ever have any dealings with the police ever again, you never heard me sing."

"Oh, now, you have a lovely voice. Some church choir training in there, unless I'm much mistaken."

Nodding, a little baffled, "Not in a _long_ time." I meant it to sound like a light-hearted observation. Sometimes I forget people don't like to be read. When they've done something, I don't much care, but I should maybe avoid it in the pursuit of a light-hearted observation. Rather than let her question it, I get up to make her breakfast. "You don't have to do that."

"It's okay. I'm a little better off than you, I think."

I'm not especially good at it. With occasional pointers, though, I cope. Sally is quiet, with her aching head down on folded arms. After a while though, she looks up, slowly rising, puzzled. "But… Wait, you were recovering."

For a moment I forget her old misconceptions and panic. Remembering is blissful; Sally thought it was alcoholism I've been battling. I don't know, somehow that's better, maybe just because it isn't true. "Oh, no… I was never… It's nothing to do with drinking."

She puts her head back down. "So we weren't wrecking anything but this morning. That's alright then. But that night I phoned you… you weren't with Lestrade then?"

"No. Went to see him, couldn't get through and… I was somewhere else."

It's not a particularly discreet evasion. She spots it at a mile off. You'd think she'd let it go, when I'm bringing her toast, but she doesn't. That's gratitude for you. "It's not fair," she mumbles. "If I'd said something like that, you'd just look at me and the answer would just come to you like magic."

It's nothing exciting and nothing I want to tell her and nothing she wants to know. But I can't tell her any of that. Instead I take advantage of her nausea, waving dry toast under her nose until she reels, telling her she has to try, that it'll make her feel better. She's too sick to believe me.

This is years ago, but my first and worst withdrawal? I spent four days genuinely believing I did not want food. Mycroft found me, had me hospitalised. Not that that'll happen with Sally's hangover but… It could be an explanation, in part at least, why I just really, really want her to eat before I have to leave.


	53. Faultless:At Fault

Sherlock

This isn't my fault.

Everybody says that. Every failing recovery case has somebody to blame. But really. Honestly. This isn't my fault. It's Donovan's. That sounds really unfair, I know; she's had such a rough time of it lately. How perfectly awful of me to lay this fresh sin at her feet. But if you think about it, everything that's happened to her has been beyond her control, up until this point she has nothing to be apologetic or guilty for. And even this is blameless. I beg no apology, I expect no contrition. She didn't mean to do it anyway.

No, that's not true either. Forgive me, I'm having some difficulty effectively arranging my thoughts. She _meant_ what she said, but had no idea, could never have had any, what the end result would be. Knew not what she did, is perhaps the archaic phrase required here.

You see, she said thank you.

As I was leaving, this is. She saw me to the door and said thank you. And when I asked her what for she turned quiet and shy, and said, "Just… thanks."

You understand now, obviously, don't you? I don't even need to worry about this being the logic of the incapacitated, because I wasn't yet incapacitated at the time. This was the logic of a completely straight mind, inches from sickness, made clear and sharp with pain. If anything, it makes _less_ sense to me now. But you're straight-headed, and you must see. Yes? She didn't leave me any choice. She said that and what else was there, in all this wide world, that I was supposed to do? I couldn't crash, couldn't stop what had been so determinedly begun.

It's simple; I have experimented. I revisited the world outside addiction and found it to be the same one that put me here to begin with. The experiment is over. The results were conclusive. There's nothing up there worth fighting for.

By sheer chance, or maybe just proximity, I found Ruby again. She's unconscious, though, for the most part. Every so often she'll bubble up little fragments of speech, but I don't know who she's talking to. Don't' think she knows I'm here. I'm happy to have found her. Mostly, this is because Ruby gets the mattress. Her father is the source behind the dealers behind all the good dosses. Ruby always gets the mattress, and doesn't mind when I borrow a corner.

Well, I did for a while. I was sitting up there with my back to the wall, with her feet in my lap. It was nice; her toenails are neon pink, it was very distracting. But despite all efforts to keep him out, all walls put in his way, everything I've done to just make him go away, Carl Hedegaard crept into my thoughts. What easy pickings we'd be, how we'd be displayed. And then I felt I was jinxing Ruby just by sharing that space and now I'm on the floor at her side.

Donovan's fearful syndrome. The remnants of long-passed Latin lessons are patchy but… Saturnaphobia? No… No, not that… Sisurna. Sisurnaphobia.

You see? I still remember my Latin. I told you I was alright, really.

Or I was, until just now, when downstairs there was suddenly this rush of feet, this noise of big sports bags being moved very quickly, windows opening, warnings shouted. All the chatter and din of mass exodus. Now I'm a bit annoyed. Now I grab Ruby's arm, feeling too much like the bones of it might snap in on themselves, and shake her. "Ruby. Ruby, police, or something, probably."

Her eyes peel open, just a millimetre or so. If you hadn't seen them closed you wouldn't notice. "Wha'?"

"Police. Coppers. Trevors. Old Bill-"

She giggles. "Our friends," she says through it, "with the talking brooches."

What? Talking…? Oh, because of the radios, how they wear their radios… Which just… I know we have better things to think about, but I have to laugh at that. And it's like so many other times, once I've started, it's crippling, and absolute, and won't leave me alone. I can't stop. Before long, I can't move. There are boots on the stairs and I know I have to. This is Ruby's fault. She didn't need me to wake her. Nobody would have cared, they probably would have let her sleep. Now I've done us both in, but it's only because she was right there next to me.

It's not my fault.

Except, apparently, it sort of is. They're coming straight for me. One of them checks me off against a picture and calls his friends (via talking brooch), and it is me personally who is removed from the premises, dragged by the arms, with Ruby keening because she's too high to even know what's going on behind me, not really knowing that much myself, until they pull me out and put me in the back of a car. I look at the passenger seat; the person you're being brought to is never driving.

"Ah. _Ave, Lestrade_."

"What?" he says. He doesn't get it all either. It's a theme. Wonder if he's tried drugs, as an out? So much more consuming than alcohol. Faster, too. Probably shouldn't ask him right now, though.

"_Quid agis hodie?"_

"Sherlock, snap out of it, would you?"

"_Bene me habeo, gratias ago pro petendo…_"

"What is that, Italian?"

"_Non, linguam italicum non loquor_..."

He won't even turn. He looks at me only in the rear view mirror. Says quietly, sounding angry, almost hurt (what have I ever done to him?); "Your brother's been half-mad looking for you. Another body on the street this morning and he seems to think you could be on the hit-list. Can't say I'd be too annoyed, myself, but he's upset. And this is as close to work as they'll let me get until my evaluation next week, so I said I'd find you."

Donovan must have tipped him off; what direction I left in, on foot, hungover, it narrowed the field for him considerably. It's alright. She probably didn't know what she was doing, really, what hands she was delivering me to, and me too far gone to properly defend myself.

I brace myself. This is going to be no fun at all. Actually, wouldn't mind another jolt, for the road, before going to face the afternoon ahead.

_Condemnant quod non intelligunt_. I have to find a way to make them understand.

* * *

Jim

Holmes should have been in touch by now. We've gone so far past the point where Holmes should have gotten in touch that I've gone through worry, out the other side and now I'm worried again. Think about it; ten minutes for word that Underwood was dead to get back to headquarters, _maybe_ an hour for Mycroft to get in the loop, if that? Ten-to-fifteen minutes' moral debate, and he still should have been in touch hours ago.

What else is there? I must have missed something, yeah? There has to be something I haven't factored in, and I can't even think what it would be, except that it has to exist and I have to have missed it.

I've been thinking about it so long I can't actually _think_ anymore. Just keep looking over at Dani's phone, _waiting_, like glaring at the thing will make it start bleeping. _She_, by the way, is unruffled, paying absolutely no attention to anything. She's turning the phone over and over against the arm of the chair. In her other hand, she has a pen, and she's marking pages and circling things in some glossy magazine with no words.

"I'm doing this for you, y'know," I tell her.

"Wearing a track in Seb's living room floor? Darling, you _shouldn't_ have…"

"_Holmes_. For you and for him. Where is he, by the way?"

She looks up from this pre-shopping, fixes her eyes on me. I slow down, but don't quite stop pacing. That's what she wants. Daring, challenging, "Think about it."

Why should I? She's been here in the whole time (like I'm letting that phone out of my _sight_). She could just tell me. But no, it has to be a drama, and I can't let her win.

Moran got out of the multi-storey in one piece. Had to do a bit of running at the end, but otherwise it was fairly placid. Out from under his one-eyed telescopic gaze and the glare of his cereal-fuelled jealousy, I finished my eggs in peace, watched as the opposite corner bloomed, first with blue flashing lights and then with the red blink of cameras and the pop of pap-cameras. It was good fun. The two old-world gents at the table to my back started talking, loudly, how if this last month hasn't been the beginning of the end of the world, we'll spin forever. Society is crumbling. The centre cannot hold. Civilization has fled and left London a zoo. Meanwhile, Moran would have been either blending in seamlessly, vanishing, or still running and having to get rid of the rifle. I was told how it all went, but it was hours ago and it's not like I haven't had more on my mind, Christ's sake… And then he came back, and he was in a good mood, and I was just starting to get a bit edgy about this and then…

Oh, God, it's sickening. I don't mean to spit the words out, not at Dani, but, "He went out for _milk_…" Who needs milk, fuck's sake? What, for his fucking Sugar Puffs? It's not as if the world is turning. It's ending, remember? It's all slowed right down and that's what's holding up Mycroft, obviously; he's running at the same snailish rate as decency and humanity, of course! I mean, when he calls, yeah, by all means, go for milk, I will need some for my tea, but _until such times_! Until such times, Sebastian Moran, do not presume to continue with the petty little concerns of existence, because nobody'll thank you for it when you're the last one to die, going round the world making sure all the lights are off before you go to do the stars.

"You should probably sit down."

"Somebody has to keep moving, Danielle."

"Sit down or I will make you sit down."

"Excuse the fuck out of me?!" But I'm pacing back past her. Her one heel pins my toe and I spin on the step, stumbling backward into the sofa. Not sure quite how to respond to that. Hurt and offended, yes, angry as hell, yes, but it was quite a nice move, and it's knocked the breath out of me, so maybe I'll just stay where I am for a second first. "…How long have you been wanting to do that?"

"Long enough to have the angles and timings figured."

"I _am_ missing something, Danielle."

"Well, maybe hearing his colleague was shot in cold blood, especially with being aware we were involved, 'advancement' wasn't the first thing his mind lit on."

…Woman talks some crap sometimes, I swear. "And what else?" I shouldn't even ask the question; any answer is ridiculous Of course that was the first thing his mind lit on. He was already thinking about it. He knew we were involved and Underwood and he was _already_ thinking if there was some way he could turn this to his advantage, before the eggs were ever ordered, the gun loaded. "No, come on, enlighten me to the inner workings of the Holmes ego."

"Underwood steals the work out from beneath him, and is killed. Maybe he's in fear of his life-"

"All the more reason he'd be trying to play us right now."

"-Or the lives of… of those associated with him."

Oh. You just have to laugh sometimes. You think you know people. Like, for instance, I would have said Miss Mies here had too romantic a nature in and of herself. I would never have doubted or disputed that, not for a second. But I thought she was a bit smarter than this, capable of tailoring herself a little bit more. Bless her big bleeding heart, she's sat there telling me Mycroft Holmes has friends and loved ones, and more than this, but that he worries about them before himself.

If she had offered this as an explanation when I was wondering why he was passed over for promotion, why Underwood was flying ahead of him in the race, _maybe_ that would have been the time to consider a point like that. And to reconsider everything that was to come, because it's not the ideal situation for me.

Then, if that had happened, I might have called Moran to me, given him a fresh bullet and my eternal blessing, and sent him skipping off with his tongue hanging out.

But these are all hypotheticals, and not a pick of truth to any of it. We're a long way past that point so I ask, one more time, no jokes now please, _why_ has Holmes yet to get in touch with me, please?


	54. Low:High

Jim

During all the waiting, the dark comes down around us. There's a comfort in it. There is for me, anyway. I never understood the fear of the dark, y'know. Even when I was just a kid. I've always preferred it. It wasn't until I heard it being explained to somebody else it made any sense. They were saying, it's not the dark that people are afraid of. It's what might be hiding in it. And then it all just clicked, why I like it better, why it suits me. Why, when the night draws in, I don't want the lights on.

When she can no longer see the magazine, Dani slumps, half-sleeping. I let her. She'll still hear the phone. I'll hear it.

Because we're out here in the suburbs, everything goes quiet outside. Once the kids are in bed nothing moves. Cars become an event, occasional. I suppose I can see why Moran likes it here. The slightest thing out of the ordinary, he'll notice it, fast as a finger-snap. Tonight there's nothing. Orange streetlights flaring up in the rain, that's all. Me, I prefer to be a few extra floors up. I like the distance, the perspective. Nothing at _all_ to do with looking down on you all, I promise. Which reminds me, I need to add 'floor-to-ceiling windows' onto my Zoopla search. A good view, and as many angles on it as possible.

Of course, any view of London is a good view. Don't get me wrong, that's not me being all poetic about it. It's an ugly bloody place, most of the time. Parts of it, the parts you think of, are very picturesque, very chocolate box, but for the most part? All big cities look the same. They're all dives, and it's only the height of the buildings that changes. No it's just that any view of London is like that moment on The Price Is Right when the curtain goes back and all of a sudden there are fabulous prizes all over the stage.

I like to think there's a little more skill in what I do than was required of Brucie's average contestant, but the sentiment is the same.

_Here's what you could win. _

A car goes past, probably off to pick up kids or grab a loaf for the breakfasts, something normal and ridiculous, and the flash of the headlights through the window makes me flinch. Too much like the spotlight coming on on that 'lucky audience member' (yeah, like that was ever random). Makes me feel just a touch ill, for just a second, too much like the memory of that clench-jawed grin they were always wearing, the silly little wave, a fetid mix of falseness and nerves.

But if you want to claim your prizes…

* * *

Sherlock

Something's wrong. Lestrade brought me home. As a matter of fact, he practically threw me across the door, much in the manner cops throw robbers into cells on TV. But he's taken off now. I'm alone. No Mycroft. Please, don't think I expect him to have come to my aid, but after what Lestrade said in the car I thought I was being brought to him. I'm sitting looking over at the landline, somewhere between willing it to ring and daring myself to pick it up. It's not as if I want to talk to him. I was happy where I was, and _probably_ safer. Mycroft's lot know where I live, so if they're being targeted then I was much better off across town in the unknown back bedroom of a derelict house. I wasn't even in my own mind, when I was there, how much _safer_ can you get?

But nobody ever listens to me. Doesn't make any difference that I talk more sense high than most of them do on their very sharpest day. Idiots. Somebody ought to explain to them just how drunk Churchill would get, and how frequently. The opium use of major figures in world history is well documented. Drugs have been used for so long as the excuse of stupid people that there's a whole new fallacy sprung up – stupid people use drugs therefore all addicts are stupid. That's not logical. The basic tenets of logic would tell you that that's not logical.

Where is Mycroft? Somebody of Mycroft-comparable status was apparently murdered this morning. Now it's night. I'm being protected and Mycroft isn't here and hasn't been in touch.

Naturally I don't think Mycroft's been murdered. He hasn't. Naturally not. Because… Because he just hasn't. There are loads of factors that ought to be telling you Mycroft couldn't possibly have been shot like his colleague. You're just not looking for them. That's your own problem, nothing to do with me, and why should I help? I just happen to know for a fact he hasn't been murdered. The reason he's not here is _not_ because he's on a morgue slab with a neat round hole in one side of the head and a blood-and-bone flower of an exit wound on the other, like those two officers, like Hedegaard, like the man who would have taken Mies by the river that day, like the one who was captured outside the Cathedral, like…

He hasn't. Look, I'll phone him and prove it. Just because you're being so dense that you can't see this, I'll prove it to you.

I lift up the phone, and dial, and wait. It rings. And I wait. And it rings, and I wait, and it rings, and rings, and rings.

* * *

Jim

Moran, because he's cruel, because he has presence and knows how to use it, stands over me until I sense him and jolt awake, swearing. Then, his job done, he retreats laughing and sits in the other armchair.

It's my own fault, falling asleep. That's probably a sign of weakness to the Good Soldier over there. Across the dark, soft because, by the way, it's only _me_ he woke, her Highness has been allowed to snooze on, he says, "What was the dream, mate? You getting an itch scratched?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"'_Higher, higher… Lower_…"

"Moran, the next time you imitate my accent, you can consider it your contract terminated. I'm only letting you off because I thought there was some crude euphemism there."

"There was. You just don't have the filthy mind required to understand it."

Well, that's a thing I do quite well without. Why, then, does it annoy me he's telling me there's something I can't have and something I can't understand? Quite apart from anything, he's joking, so it doesn't make any odds, and they're things I don't want, so why do I get all tetchy and annoyed? "Where have you been, anyway?"

"Making arrangements." For a moment, it's as if that's all he has to say. Like he just expects me to get more out of that. I wait. "I've a few too many bodies on me of late, wouldn't you say? Best flee the country for a couple of weeks."

I could have done that for him. I _should_ have. I'm the one who has, to use his rather elegant turn of phrase, put the bodies on him. Moran is owed, big time, and it wouldn't have been a problem. I could have done that. Or maybe I shouldn't need to. Is it irresponsible, giving him so much of the work he loves that he has to abscond? Was that a mistake?

Like I'm saying all this out loud, the voice comes back, "Stop worrying. I'm not worried."

"You would have said, wouldn't you? If it was too much to ask."

"No. Because you wouldn't pay any attention to that. I would have took off and left you a number for somebody in the same profession."

Oh. Well, that's… _honest_, I suppose. I think I'll just jump back to the bit where he said he wasn't worried and run with it. Knowing him, or so I tell myself, he just wants the holiday. He'll be sneaking off to Milan again. Naughty Moran, using an excuse that he knew would leave me questioning myself, and maybe very slightly, just on the corners, touched by guilt, all so he can take off and get his end away with impunity.

Yeah, that's a lot easier to take.

"Moran?"

"Yes?"

"While you're being all wise and open-"

"Now who's doing the crude innuendo?"

"-Why hasn't Holmes gotten in touch?"

He sighs. Moran actually sighs at me, damn him… "Have you considered for a second he might be shit-scared? He might not know _what_ to do next."

I like his explanation a lot better than Danielle's. Start sliding away again. Moran's here now, Moran'll hear the phone. Be alright. I haven't made any mistakes or miscalculations. I know that. Just need to start trusting it, that's all.

* * *

Sherlock

I still don't believe Mycroft's been murdered. But the more I thought about it there are all these other things. I went outside, not for air or anything stupid, just to check he hadn't been run over by a bus on my street and me not even noticing. Called again. Couple more times, actually. Even if he doesn't answer a nurse might, or whoever's kidnapped him might. If I have to go after him, I will. You start thinking about it, all the things that could have happened, and you realize it's insane. Nothing's safe. Anything could happen. Parts of a satellite breaking up on re-entry could have been flung out of space and sheared off his head at Greenwich Park. Anything. Me, I have nothing. I'm here, alone, with no way of knowing anything. And I need more cigarettes. I know I came in here with half a pack and now there are none. But I can't leave, in case he calls back.

I just want him to pick up. I don't care if he talks, I don't care if he bellows down the phone at me, I don't care if he's in a brothel in Kathmandu, I just want him to answer.

It's not fair. If it was the other way round, he'd have eyes everywhere. Mycroft can locate me in under an hour almost any given day, he's proved this. I have no such recourse. What am I supposed to do, call him at the office?...

Actually, not a bad idea.

The landline's cordless. I take it off its dock and put it in my coat pocket. I can get more fags on my way down to Fleet Street. It's as simple as that. Either he'll be there, in the midst of terribly important war counsels that cannot be disturbed, or it'll be the last place he was and the clues will be there. There'll be a way to get in touch with someone who can find out.

I get as far as the corner of the street without incident. This, now that my eyes are open and I can see how easy it would be for a car to mount the kerb and take me out, for a bird to get trapped in an electric cable and bring it down in the rain and electrocute me, for a bike messenger to clip my arm and send me spiralling into the road in front of a bus, is a miracle in itself. But there, on the corner, _I told you_, anything can happen – I walk into someone else.

Nothing catastrophic happens, but that's just luck. I mumble my apology and try and breeze past. It could already be too late; I might have jolted him when we collided, and he's already dropped a cigarette butt into some fold of my coat, to smoulder and finally catch and it's raining, but I'll burn. I try to brush it off.

And hear, "Sherlock, what on earth are you doing?" Mycroft. There are answers I could give him, things I could say, there are a lot of things. I can't exactly talk, however. There in the street, because he's alive and I had thought otherwise, I put my arms around my brother.

He pushes me away, and repeats his question with more venom.


	55. Sense:Non-Sequitur

Sherlock

Mycroft says it's the way I suspected. He was working, and couldn't be disturbed. He got all my calls and rather than phone he decided to come over. He is still brushing off the shoulders of his suit. His expression is not even that of the old distaste, the look I'm so used to, so many years of standing up to it. I can take the old distaste. This isn't that. It's not disappointment either, or sadness, that can be put out of mind with false blame and 'how dare he'. None of that. Tonight it's just something like hate.

"I thought you were dead," I tell him. I don't think it's the first time. He mustn't have said anything to answer it yet, because I still feel the need to tell him. "Mycroft, I thought you were dead."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock."

That's not an answer. There's no honesty or reality in it; I need him to say something that makes it better. He's sitting in front of me and I still feel like he might be out there dead somewhere. But he's not going to. He doesn't think he needs to. He's sat there at my table, staring as though I'm speaking in tongues. Me, I can't sit, I'm stuck pacing, back and forth and back again, because he just doesn't – just won't… I'm losing words like blood. They're gushing from me, along with everything attached to them, haemorrhaging sentiment. I keep losing the words. Someday it'll be as though I never knew them.

"Well, who is then?" I say, just to make him talk. "Dead, that is. That person, what's his name… Underwood, him?"

Mycroft looks down at his hands. If eh only would have done that before, when we were talking about him… But it's now. Looks down and says, "Clayton's dead, yes."

"Cut the first name bollocks out, you hated the man."

Blithe, blasé, "Only lately. He was shot. Expertly, in public, and in spite of a sizeable armed guard, both overt and covert. Sound familiar?" Of course it bloody does. He didn't have to ask that. "The gunman, this time, was pursued, but evaded capture. There's been no communication, no one's claimed it, no statement of intent."

"And where have you been all day?"

He looks up again, flinching like I just asked about the football results. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Just answer a question, for once in your life!"

Shouted. Shouldn't have done that. He thinks it's all just narcotic. It's hysteria. Why should he pay any attention, take it seriously? But between you and me I am more sober right now that I had any desire to ever be again. Ever since I walked into him. Though it didn't get the chance to last all that long, whatever the feeling, relief or joy, whatever it was, it was strong enough and went through me fast enough to flush out the rest. Like I didn't think I'd need it anymore. But now he's giving me that look again; me as scum, me as everything he isn't, me as everything he thought was gone. Now I've shouted and he 'knows better' than to even care.

We were doing so well, him and I. I'm not imagining that? That really happened?

"I was," he finally begins, calm and level and very deliberate, talking me back from the ledge, "giving a full debrief on the operation to date."

Oh.

Reporting in. All that secrecy and back-stabbing, now it all has to come out. Now that one of their own is dead, they want all the details yesterday and a solution five minutes from now. One bullet and the 'department' starts acting like one. "How very painful for you all. Wasn't Diogenes the one who didn't mix well with the other philosophers?"

"It was a randomly assigned name."

"Then somebody _very_ high up is doing quite a bit of snickering."

Here's another perk of being high (as though another were needed); Mycroft now thinks he's automatically higher. Metaphorically speaking, of course. He now thinks _he_ can say to _me_, "For heaven's sake, Sherlock. A man is dead."

Instinct is to cry out, _Finally_. But in these last weeks I have had such a wonderful teacher in Mycroft. It simply wouldn't do to let him down. "He's out of your way."

At least the superiority goes out of his gaze. So does everything else. Stunned, maybe, but from here it just looks hollow, as though Mycroft had emptied out. Everything just vanishing out of him. I do hope so; a lesson in return. Repaid; after all he's done me a favour. Mycroft has taken a lot of silly illusions away from me lately.

Still pacing, I turn away from him and his fixed eyes. "The real question," I say, thinking out loud, "is who _else_ this fresh murder serves."

"That much, I had thought, ought to be clear." He's shooting for supercilious, but can't get his nose far enough in the air. What's left him with his head down, I wonder…

"Hm? The… _bad guys_ as it were? Forgive me, Mycroft, but it doesn't make a lot of sense. Reveal yourself to a new party, set up a meeting, promise riches and then have him killed? He hadn't given them anything, had he?"

"Not that we know of."

"Just say 'no', Mycroft, nobody will hold it against you. You see my problem, I'm sure. Why have him killed? He was still nobody. He knew nothing about them, no threat and _so far as you know_ had nothing worthwhile to offer up to them. No, I'm sorry; it just doesn't make any sense to me."

Or to him. He knew that coming here. But he couldn't have walked up to his masters and said, 'This murder does nothing for anybody except me'. Then I definitely wouldn't have bumped into him in the rain. I'd never even have known where to lay flowers, more than likely. He's been telling the same story all day, over and over, blow-by-blow. 'Falling for his own line,' is the phrase.

"Of course," I sigh in the end, "there's someone I could ask, might shed a bit of light on things." Oh, look at him. Look; like a child on Christmas morning. The threat of a lump of coal hangs over him still, but in his heart there is elation new-sprung and only waits to be triggered. "What?" I ask. "Come on; we're a bit old for me hold off out of spite."

A pause, while he thinks that over. Then, "Forgive me, but do you mean you would have taken this on anyway?"

"Of course. I'm bored, remember? Need a distraction. Come back in the morning," I tell him. "You can have her when I'm finished."

* * *

Jim

I think the waiting got to us all. That's how I end up, second day running, with an indulgent, restaurant breakfast. And the best part is, Moran has nothing to complain about this time, because he's with me. Dani too, and all of us half-slept and mumbling, talking, but not to each other. Me mumbling, "I'm going to end up like a beached whale."

Moran mumbling, "Beats Sugar Puffs, I suppose…"

Dani mumbling, "Must stop off at Poste Mistress, don't let me forget."

Breakfast is as tasteless as the conversation. This isn't the chef's fault. It's Holmes'. I could be eating blue cheese and pickled herring and old socks and not taste anything. We're all sitting here, spent and lost like people late returned from holidays, and where's he?

No, honestly, I'm asking a question. Answer me. Is he hiding in a crowd with an unlikely red-and-white striped bobble hat on? Are him and Carmen Sandiego having it off at the top of a Shanghai pagoda? He's playing cards, isn't he, with Shergar and Lord Lucan, and Elvis-Who-Ain't-Dead…

Christ, when he's mine, I'm going to have him chipped.

Now, if you lend any credence at all to Danielle – "Oh, and Church's, for you, I'll show you when we get there…" – and her theory, which I don't, but if you do, Mycroft has had plenty to time to warn his supposed 'nearest and dearest'. They could be halfway to Tokyo by now. Even if you were listening to her, which I'm not, that excuse has run out of time.

If, on the other hand, you follow Moran's teachings, then we're really in trouble. And I don't mean 'we' as in us around the table, I mean we as a country, as a _race_. Because if the gents in charge of us can stay shit-scared for a full twenty-four hours without somebody else stepping in to take over, we are done for. A big red button is going to get pressed elsewhere in the world and those who should be acting will be sat in the cupboard whistling Rule Britannia with their fingers in their ears.

That is, until a big heart-throb type American comes and leads them out by the hand. But let's not get onto world politics here. It's boring, and it's useless, and anyway it's got nothing to do with what's under discussion i.e. Mycroft Holmes and his possible cowardice.

I'm not kidding, but if that man should be found in hiding, trembling at my very name, not only will I let Moran kill him, but I'll let him and Dani torture him beforehand. Actually, I'll have a doctor on hand, and when they torture him into cardiac arrest, I'll have him shocked back into this world. I'll have him nursed back to health by an incredibly wonderful Mary Poppins type, and just when he's getting back on his feet, I'll roll a guillotine in and kill her in front of him. I'll leave the head in there too, for a couple of days. No, more, for a week, and no food either, and when he's fallen that far, I'll let Moran and Dani back in to start it all over again. And it will not end until there is nothing left in him that might be considered the mind of an adult human male.

Is that an overreaction?

I'm sorry, it just makes me really angry thinking of that possibility. Because that's the only thing that could really ruin this, is if Mycroft doesn't react at all. I never planned for that.

One of the reasons I hate chess, actually. Chess is supposed to be this perfect microcosm of life, and especially of battle. And maybe it is, if you're into all this horseback-and-swords approach, but that's not how battles are fought these days. Chess is too simple. Literally, it goes black-white-black-white-black-white-checkmate. But in life, in real battles, in work like this, there's another eventuality.

It goes something like white-black-white-black-white-black-'_Woah_! Okay, mate, that'll do, see you later…' If Holmes just steps off, lives to fight another day? Well, see above re: torture and defibrillators and Nightingale nurses.

Find myself mumbling, "I really should have a guillotine. Just in case."

An _almost_-related mumble, not quite a reply, from Danielle, "_Paris_. We could go antiquing."

Moran can hardly close his mouth when he chews. Doesn't help that he keeps talking through it. I wish to God somebody would just glare at him from across the room. He'd snap out of it then. Get all self-conscious and correct everything. If he was here on his own, that would happen. I think it's me, y'know, my comparative refinement. He comes in under the good auspices of that and all the looks I see pass in his direction say something like '_Aaw_.' Like he's a child or a pet, and all because I've got all my shirt buttons done in the morning.

"Office," he's barely-saying. "We look like we've been in the office all night."

"We've been in the office for most of a month," I tell him. Try not to snap. Sort of do.

"But, like, we had a Powerpoint to finish for the big board meeting or something." He must have run out of _Peep Show_ episodes, moved on to _The Office_. Some big life development like that. I'm sorry I missed the transition.

Dani manages to look at him when she speaks. Could be paying attention, but from the way her eyes are rolling over him, I'd say she's still just plotting this imaginary spending spree she's dragged up out of her dreams last ni- Rings. Phone, rings, ringing, it's there, it's ringing. I snatch for it before I remember it can't be my voice and draw back. Danielle hooks over it on the table. Then shakes her head. "It's not him."

No. It's not even ringing, really. It's a text.

Moran puts down his knife. That was the first he'd lifted it, when that faux-ringing started. I'm not commenting on his table manners or anything, more asking myself what exactly he intended to stab.

But the rush helped. We're straightening, all three of us. Dani tips her head, says sweetly, "Not to alarm anybody, but I may be about to be kidnapped."

"'Bout fecking time." They both glare round at me. I clear my throat. "I mean… you know what to do alright?"


	56. On Paper:In Person

Jim

Danielle insisted on going home first. Rather than just go for the meet and get it over with, rather than put me out of my misery, she is wilfully prolonging it. "Grace Kelly," she said, when I asked what excuse she was using for this cruelty. I think I'm supposed to know what that means. I have some dim memory, her being arch, talking about how you can't go to the finale looking less than your best. Then, "Anyway, you need to go and get me paper copies of anything he might ask to see."

Which is true, so far as it goes, but he probably won't ask. Mycroft this is. Oh, God, I wish I could be there to see it. His face when the lights come on and everything is suddenly, perfectly, clear to him, flashing lights and dancing girls, how could he have missed it… I wish I could tell him myself, instead of having to use a proxy like this. Wish I could be somebody else, just for half an hour, and him and me could just chat. I'd get him to open his shirt and show him the scar where I've stitched him up, and then I'd tell him how I did it.

It's tempting, y'know. I could go. He doesn't know I'm me, if you catch my drift. I could play the part of any other Dani, someone in my thrall, gone to do the talking and no more than this. It's so tempting. Just that little bit too dangerous, though. The Creep was just too close a call. Be foolish not to take that seriously. But I can daydream it.

This is one job, if she tells me 'it went well', I'll let Danielle just leave it there. I'll keep the memory blank, and fill it in the way I want, the way I would have done it.

I can dream I walk in myself, as myself, as my very best of selves. Dream he's sat down, and I stand in front of him, open arms. I say to him, "Y'know that Big Bad Wolf you've been out hunting? Well, here I stand." He'd make some move against me. Probably not do anything himself, probably. He'd begin whatever gesture is meant to call down all the king's horses and men. I'd say, "Not the best idea you've ever had." Somewhere in that conversation, I would get the chance to tell him, direct, word-for-word (I ring Danielle at home to make sure this most important phrase gets in there), "There is no longer anything you can do about it."

Ah, but enough of this mental wandering. I have work to do, remember? Paper copies, too incriminating to have had on hand until now, have to be done up. I don't think he'll ask for them, but it's right, absolutely right, to be ready with them, just in case.

Anyway, they'll help me explain things to Moran. Bless him, he's insisting now. There's been trust up until this point, that the time would come and everything would be clear to him. I think if he sees the print-outs appearing he'll get the picture right and quick. It's like that last piece of evidence in a very bad detective story. There's always a little twist, a little something you had no way of guessing or spotting, but once it's put to you? The murderer might as well turn blue and start to glow.

I show you too, if you want. Show, not tell, isn't that what they say?

I ring Dani again, "Don't forget and tell him how he can cover up."

_"_You can't write me a script," is the snarky reply, "I have no way of getting one to Holmes." At least we've moved on from the backchat in the car. Nothing that hasn't been said or heard before. Actually, ironic enough, it was that conversation again, the one we had before, about what she was supposed to say. And now I'm telling her and…

But y'know what, I'm too damned bloody chipper to be pissed off, old bean. And that's as genuine and as rare as it sounds so anyone who would take advantage had best do it now.

So here it comes. I'll show you the evidence, all of it, and you will tell me your conclusions. It's important for you-the-jury to note that I absolutely will not attest to the veracity of any of this evidence. Just like real court. By the time something is placed in front of a jury, by the time it can be called Exhibit-Whatever, it's already supposed to have been checked out and found to be a fact. You-the-jury are to treat everything put before you as one-hundred-per-cent bona fide. It's called 'evidence' for a reason. It's evident.

Exhibit A, just spooling out now, is some records. They've come from the mobile network providers, and are the kind of thing you need a police warrant to even request. But we couldn't be bothered requesting them, that can take weeks. I had a mate of Moran's, a forger he met doing currency out in the Afghan provinces, knock these up the last couple of days. Good job he's done and all, complete with cover letters from O2 and Virgin certifying that they have fulfilled a request from the Met and every bloody thing. Look at them, they're perfect. How could you not buy this?

These records record to the last detail the text messages exchanged between two mobiles. The first is registered to one Jonathan Darcy. Who was a soldier. Now, unfortunately, he's dead, but that doesn't much matter. I'm not sure anyone's going to get the chance to look all that closely at this. The second phone is registered to one Mycroft Holmes. He's never used it before a couple of days ago. It was in a safe at his office until I had it nicked. Again, that doesn't matter.

What matters is I have two pages here of cryptic and yet somehow… _unequivocal_ messages exchanged, in which Holmes most patently, oh, for all to read and know the truth, arranges for Darcy to kill one Clayton Underwood (the Third.)

Are you getting it? There's a glimmer behind Moran's eyes. You should be getting it. Actually, from that, you should already have guessed.

If you're still confused, look away now, because it's only going to get worse. The next part isn't really related. Exhibit B is actually a very kind sort of Exhibit. Not so much _evidence_, as an offering.

Mycroft will get it, when it's explained to him. He'll either storm off in a huff and come crawling back later, or he'll look sensibly at what he's got and begin to bargain. If he takes the brave latter option, we have this to give him.

Exhibit B begins with a contract, in which Clayton Underwood (the Third) agrees to pay a considerable monthly sum to Joe Soap (or, to give him his proper name, James Phelps, currently missing) in order that his computer might be used as a server-mirror for classified business. The banking registers go back _years_.

Get it? You should sort of be getting it now.

* * *

Sherlock

The sandwich shop at the corner of my street is understandably closed, for the time being. Something to do with all the staff suffering major psychological trauma. That's why I'm twenty minutes away, waiting on a bench at the top of Primrose Hill. This is a cooler, greyer morning than last time. It suits the situation better. It's a good time, too. After the morning joggers, before the mothers with buggies when the nurseries let out. Quiet, and still, and just the threat that last night's rain is about return with a vengeance.

Of course, there's still one jogger. His day off work, I suppose. There's one mother already, with a pram; the child is too young for a nanny, maybe? It doesn't need one anyway, it's not real. It's a soft toy under a blanket. I doubt she's a mother. These intelligence types are rarely family-oriented. That jogger's been stretching out two benches along for the last ten minutes.

There's only one human being I can see who is going about honest work honestly, and that's the man opening the ice cream stand.

Oh, and there's Mies. Hard to say where she falls. She comes at her own pace, up the path, watching me get larger, I suppose, without self-consciousness. Like any other day, she is well-dressed, and well-made up, casually pristine. So what?, I suppose. What else is there to say?

She sits down next to me, lights a cigarette and offers me the pack. Says, "Do you know how many men I let _summon_ me the way you have this morning?"

"Oh, I wouldn't like to guess."

A wry smile, an elbow in my ribs. I need to score and I'm not in the mood. "Not very many."

"So why me?"

"Because I like you. Now what did you want to see me for?"

"You know who killed Hedegaard."

"Do I? Best kept secret, then…"

"That's what you told Underwood."

That surprises her. Brings her head quickly round towards me. But I had expected more of a reaction. I don't look at her, but the sensation of her eyes rolling, head to toe, it's more like she's gauging me than that she's shocked. Or she's afraid. That was my immediate reading, that something had scared her, deeply, beyond the level of simple deception and self-preservation. But I don't see how that fits in. That's a fear you only feel for someone else. You have to care about them before you can fear for them. So I don't really see how that fits in.

I tell her, hoping that honesty will earn honest in return, "I don't give a fuck about Underwood. I just want to know who killed Hedegaard."

"I don't know. I was meant to meet him at the same time as Underwood. I was just the guide."

"You're lying."

"Yes, darling, and please just let me."

"Nobody else is ever going to ask you who killed Hedegaard and I need to know."

"Why?"

Stupid question. Because he's dead, that's why. Because I do. I got him. I got Hedegaard. Whatever way you cut it, without me that would never have happened. I got him and before anybody could ask him that same stupid, idiot question, somebody killed him. That stupid question, the one she's using to imply that none of this really matters, is the only one that mattered at all with him, and the one he's been put beyond answering. Why? Because of why.

But I didn't say that out loud. I'm almost certain it sounds better in my head. Nevertheless, I should have, because she takes my hesitation as an invitation to go on talking herself. Says softly, "You're torturing yourself." And then that awful motion, too familiar to be disconcerting and not enough to be a comfort, her hand passing my eyes, moving hair from my forehead. Her fingernail's grown back, been filed off smooth again. Not cutting anybody this time. I grab it away from me by the wrist. She only repeats, "You're torturing yourself."

"No. I'm being tortured. From every possible angle."

Softer still, maybe I'm not even meant to hear it, "Have you tried not caring?"

Funny, it's a piece of advice I've been getting a lot lately. From people, that is, who don't assume I'm already that far gone. I'm starting to resent it. And to resent even more the fact that I'm adjusting to it. Being told to stop caring is starting to feel like a good thing, just because it implies that I care at all. I hate this, all of it.

"Okay then, something easier. Something people other than me might ask. There's… There's another name. Hedegaard said it. A name… Man's name. A man, specifically, with a secretary."

Her hand settles over mine, the lipstick end of her cigarette just brushing my knuckles. "Take your time, why don't you?"

Not half as kind as it sounds. Between the lines she mutters, _It's clear you've been very high since then_.

Worse yet, the only response I have is that I would quite literally kill or die to be as high as that just now.

There's a name, the name of a man, and it was… "Moriarty. Tell me about that." Mies doesn't answer. I have to look round this time. Her brow is furrowed. A second later she looks back at me, shaking her head as if she's given it real thought and come up blank. "Please, no deceit. I can't take that much more of it."

"Really. I went to school with a Julie Moriarty but, though I haven't seen her in te-… _eight_ years, I'm pretty sure she's not now a man with a secretary. I can look into it, if you want. Who's he supposed to be?"

"Scaramanga." Oh, yes, I couldn't remember the only thing Hedegaard got the chance to give up, but a name she mumbled weeks ago, of that's easy, yes… there's logic in this, alright…

"Oh, _that_ little theory. I'd forgotten all about it, if I'm honest. I told you, there's nothing to it."

"And then you stabbed me in the neck and left me for dead."

Sighing, not even trying, "I was on a _lot_ of painkillers." And as she says that, she starts to stand up. Looking past me, at the approaching woman with pram. Just out strolling, for what appearance is worth. But Mies shouts to her, "Relax, love, I'm coming quietly this time." Turns her head towards her shoulder and tells the now-shoe-tying jogger, "That goes for you and all." Her pose is almost casual; holding her cigarette up by her face, her other hand hanging on the shoulder. But it's designed to show her defenceless and unarmed, just waiting for them. The eyes, however, those are on me again. "Did you know about this? Just tell me. I'm looking at you and I can't be sure; did you know they were coming for me this time?"

And why should I be the only one telling the truth? Mycroft's coming now. It's been declared safe for him, I suppose. He too saunters up at his own measured pace. Not so casual as she was, though. Trying too hard to make a point. Why should I be the only honest one in the world?

"No," I say, just as he reaches her.

Mies' hand swings out and sharply back. Or, put simply, she slaps him. Backhand, so hard the crack of it is deadened in the prolonged flesh contact. The jogger moves in to pull her back, but the hand is hanging again, empty and harmless. Mycroft raises one to hold him off. Mies says, "I take it you know what that was for."

I don't like how quickly he says yes.


	57. Rehearsal:Afterparty

Sherlock

Mycroft says there isn't a mastermind. He says there never was. Bear with me, though; I might not be hearing him right. A moment ago I could have sworn he was telling me there was a ghost in the attic. Quite apart from the fact that ghosts aren't real I live in a flat with two floors above me. Unless the old bat a floor up has snuffed it outside my notice. No, that's not fair, she wasn't an old bat. _Isn't_ an old bat. She's alive and she's just a lonely, talkative old woman. _Forgive me, Mrs Haniver_, I tell the ceiling, _it's the mood that I'm in._

You see, at Primrose Hill I began to follow, when they were taking Mies away. And as it turned out, neither she nor Mycroft wanted me along. My few dubious scraps of popularity slipping away from me. There's only really Ruby left. Donovan doesn't count; she doesn't know enough to count. All she knows of me is what I've done for her, and that's not knowing at all. No, anyway, I was held off. I was told, in no uncertain terms, by my brother that I would not be tagging along. Told by Mies to 'just stay out of it', which words, _on paper_, look very much like a threat, and may well have been. But threat comes from two places. One of these is real, true danger, and everybody knows what that means.

The second is fear. I told you before about fear, didn't I? About being afraid for someone else. Threat can come out of that too.

Of course, maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. There comes a time, eventually, when you can't keep fending off self-doubt. Only so often you can be told you're wrong before you stop believing what you say yourself.

Like now, for instance. I got to this, didn't I? Mycroft's here. Been gone _hours_, I think. The sky is red. But then maybe the sky is always red, and this whole 'blue' business was just me being stubborn, because Mycroft has come to fill me in. This in itself is a thing disturbing to the natural order. Me in the loop, not having to chase and interrogate and beg. I don't trust this either. He's being very kind. He says I deserve to know. I don't trust it.

Stop. I'm confusing myself.

Events, in order, are as follows. They left me behind at the park. On my way home, I stopped off and got something. I brought something back here with me to the flat, cooked and shot it and I believe the needle is lying in the bathroom sink. So at least it's clean. That was a joke. You can laugh. I won't blame you if you don't want to, though, I'm not much in the mood myself.

Everything stopped mattering. Consider this my attempt at not caring.

There it is, in two words, the key reason, the only reason you'd ever need, to get on and stay on heroin; not caring. Everything simplifies. Life becomes about getting from hit to hit. The rest? Maybe it stops mattering, maybe I just don't care.

Long mellow hours of not-caring went by. Then Mycroft came up. He let himself in, without knocking, which I suppose just shows where we've fallen back to. He found me on the sofa and I'm damned if I'm moving for him. The only thing I did was roll over on my bared left arm, covering the constellation of recent punctures. That was instinct, if I'm honest; I am a little disgusted with myself that I made that concession for him.

When he came in he had that same sad fearfulness all over his face. It didn't last long. I might have blinked and imagined it.

He sat down, said hello, made no comment on my physical state. Told me he'd finished with Mies and had come to let me know how it turned out.

I was baffled. Told him, "She should still be insisting _Mastermind_ is a quiz program." Maybe not the most elegant response. All I really meant to say was I didn't believe they could have tortured anything out of her so quickly.

"There is no mastermind, Sherlock," he said. "There never was."

I almost got up when he said that. There is just something so fundamentally wrong with that statement. I'm right, aren't I? 'There is no mastermind, there never was'. That's farcical, isn't it? It's so, so wrong. My mind was sprinting, trying to pick the evidence out of weeks of let-down and red herrings. There are definite facts which make him a liar, I'm sure of it. I just can't find them. Everything I light on has something to contradict it, to make it ridiculous. There's a truth here, already in my head, but there's just so much other guff... I don't even have to make sense of it, I just have to find it and I can't.

Buying time, just so he'll know where we all stand, "That's bollocks."

With a shrug, as though admitting, yes, certainly, there was a degree of bollocks involved in what he just said, "Well, it's not what we thought." Mycroft thinks he's getting away with that for a moment. I think it's my eyes, looking at him over the arm of the sofa, that force him onward, sighing, "Underwood."

No.

Please, Mycroft, my head hurts and I could have sworn you were talking about ghosts before; stop turning me in circles. Let me fall if you must, but just stop turning me around. I stretch out an arm to the end table and shake a cigarette out of the packet. Wondering where they came from, actually. I didn't get far enough last night to buy any and I was sure there were none left. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. Maybe I'm on the other side of a mirror, and where no cigarettes were, there are no cigarettes. That's a fallacy. That doesn't make sense.

Hardly the greatest of my mysteries right now. I shake one out and roll over on my back to light it. "No. Doesn't make sense."

"Of course it does. Think about it, Sherlock."

"I _have_ thought about it," little white lie never hurt anybody, "and it doesn't make sense."

"He was seeking promotion." Mycroft says this like it's the most basic thing in the world. "He needed a coup."

"So Underwood set it all up just so he could solve it? Come on. On that scale? Who was the patsy supposed to be? And who killed Underwood? And where, then, did Hedegaard ever come into it?"

"Oh, it's been going on for years," Mycroft says. "It was just time to fold that particular business, I suppose."

"Wait, that's not what I asked you. And it's not what you were saying a minute ago." He's not looking at me. The eyes are low, and looking inward. That, and the knitted fingers, the body language is unmistakable. Mycroft is only just thinking all this through. He is weaving his answers and committing them to memory even as we speak. "I'm the first person you've told this to."

"I felt as though you should be informed."

"You haven't been through this with your bosses yet. What do you need a guinea pig for, Mycroft?"

* * *

Jim

The bar we're waiting in is a small, quiet basement. Very nice, very classy. More importantly, it's well known as a spot for friendlies, and being very much off the police radar. There's a gang of scam artists sit planning in one of the booths, but nothing ever happens _here_, so it just gets ignored. They won't work with me, but in the interests of holding on to a place to drink, I'm not making a big deal out of it. This is where Moran brings his merchant bankers when he gets lonely; if I ruin that for him I'm not sure how long my head would stay attached to my neck.

Anyway, no City pretties tonight, just me and him. Hold all the gags there, please. Dani'll make them when she gets here.

But Jim!, I hear you cry, surely you haven't got the person who's been talking all day to keep you a shady secret coming straight to you directly afterward.

Well, why the fuck not? If the job's done there's nothing to fear. If it's not, she knows better than to show up at all, or ever again. She'll be halfway to Jakarta, if she knows what's good for her, and somewhere I wouldn't immediately think of if she's _really_ smart.

Hooked over the pool table, Moran manages to balance mercilessly beating me with having a thought. I can't tell you the effort it takes to keep the words 'Who's a clever boy then?' from actually escaping me. He talks out loud too, but the sound of the purple stripe clacking into the corner pocket drowns him out. I have him repeat while he lines up for the blue. By the way, I've always been bloody good at this game, but what can I say? He takes his shots seriously.

"I said, are you sure it should be taking this long?"

Considering he broke all of thirty seconds ago and we're well on our way to me not even getting a shot in… Oh, he was talking about- _right_, right… "Yeah. He has hours' worth of excuses to scrabble for. Just be nice to Dani when she comes in; she's had to listen to it all day." A jolt of pure dread runs through him at the very idea of sitting in a room with Holmes for hours on end. He loses his concentration and the blue stripe bounces harmlessly off the bank next to the pocket.

I should have thought of this sooner. The best part is, he finds the whole thing too traumatic to even notice. Steps meekly back from the table, knocking back that lager rather quicker than before. "Hours," he mumbles.

"Yeah," I tell him, leaning in to start putting the spots away. And because he was doing so well, all the shots are relatively clear. Told you I was good at this game, I just need to get a look-in. "And him just talking and talking…"

Distraught, "I'm gonna ring her. If it was me, I would want to hear another voice." He can if he wants, but Danielle's phone is off, and is in my coat pocket. No way that was going with her. It has the GPS set-up, remember? If they took it off her and found that, that would be me done for. No, I surgically excised that certain-death-machine from her this morning before she left.

The only downside, so far as I can see, to stunning Moran so thoroughly, is that he doesn't really care when I win and it's his round. It's not so much fun when he doesn't care. He just mopes off to the bar without an argument. Now I have to beat him again, Christ's sake. So I start racking up the balls again, and it's while I'm doing that that all the theatrics I ever could have wanted come clattering down the stairs at the doorway. I don't even need to look up. First it's the high-heel noises, shaky and loud; so depressed by it all she's lost her posture, apparently.

Those noises walk straight up to Moran, who must be waiting, and with a soft, mutual _whumpf_, Dani falls into his arms and he holds onto her very tightly. Now I watch, counting in my head, trying not to laugh at them spending a full eight seconds stood like that in perfect silence. Her arms are hanging down by her sides like she can't even lift them, until he lets her go again. Then one lifts up to slap the bar. "Thank you, Sebastian, that was a very nice hug, and bartender? Where is barten- _Oh,_ you darling man, if we could chase that with a very nice dry martini that would be _stellar_."

I think she's lucky he knows her, talking like that.

But maybe I shouldn't be thinking about the barman's reactions and more about my own because here she comes, pointing one finger, trembling all over with accusation. "And _you_. You are a monster. Monster can do his own talking from now on."

"You loved it," I tell her.

Blunt, matter-of-fact, "I wanted to claw his eyes out every second." So dramatic, so very crippled by it all, I'm debating whether or not to tell her it wouldn't surprise me if it turned out tomorrow she was just the world's most convincing drag queen. But there's a smile beyond it all. She's alive and she's present, so that tells me something straight off.

"You knew what we were doing to him."

The start of a grin, "Only reason I didn't leap across the desk and eat his face with my teeth and claws, darling. But I still wanted to do terrible, terrible things." She points at the pool cue in my hand. "_That_ would have been a very good idea. Right up, straight through 'til it came out his mouth and-"

I drop it very sharply out of my hand onto the table. "_Jesus_, Danielle!" Moran, when he comes back with the drinks, is laughing at me. I don't know that he heard the trigger, but he's laughing anyway.

"'Course I did get to shaft him anyway," she murmurs, falling into a seat behind us where Moran can hand her that martini like an offering. "I brought you something." As she shakes her coat off she lifts the hem into her lap and runs her hand along it. Right at the back there's a place that doesn't bend, and this lump is edged around to the side where a completely-accidental tear in the lining lets her take it out. And hand it to me.

Flat, incredibly thin, it's a recorder.

I never told her to. I'm looking down at it in my palm like… like an offering again, I suppose. Like something come down out of heaven for me.

"Seb, have you got earphones for him?" He starts to rustle, looking for them. "I'm not sure when the memory ran out, but there's enough on there to be incriminating. In case he ever gets uppity. I thought you'd want to hear."

I do. I do want to hear. Obviously I won't be rude and go running now to play it loud on very good speakers that'll give up every tremor of his voice. But Moran's found his earphones and I just want just a little taste, a little bit of something…

Where I come in, Dani is saying, _Listen to me; it's you or Underwood. Underwood is dead and doesn't care. We are _trying_ to help you, Mr Holmes_.

And Mycroft, glory of glories, oh, hosanna, hallelujah, as long as I'm listening to it, Mycroft says nothing. Whole, multi-textured, expert symphonies of utter silence. I could die.


	58. Normal:Freak

Jim

Approaching chucking-out time, we're all pissed enough to finally, properly laugh about it. In the voice of a small Scottish child, Dani tips her head to me and says, "Did I do it right?"

And in my best attempt at a Christopher Lee, I answer, "You did it beautifully."

"That's not how you do Christopher Lee," Moran corrects, and starts clutching his belly like he's about to break into _La donna e mobile_, which I wouldn't put past him, if I'm honest. But all he does is start in, "His voice has to come from right down in here. 'Think RADA,' that's what I always say."

"When? _When_ do you say that, Moran, that I've never heard it before? You're not in RADA yourself, are you? Would explain a lot, that."

Dani makes her first attempt to sit up straight in over half an hour. "He left. Got tired of playing Othello. It wasn't the racial slur he resented, it was always having to fall prey to a pale, skinny Machiavelli type. I'd watch yourself, James."

Bristling, as if _he_'s the one who got insulted there, and so poleaxed he really, genuinely believes that, Moran sits forward. "_Neither_ of you," he spits, indicating us with the tip of a pool cue (he's cradling it the way he holds a long rifle. Don't know why I feel the need to mention that, but I do), "_Neither_ of you have voices you have to reach so deep for. _You_," and this is meaning _me_, "everything comes out of the back of the throat, all drawling and dead lazy. That's how you can tell you were never posh, not for a half-second." Jesus, when he gets started he gets vicious, doesn't he? I was going to tell him he clearly has a very great talent he's hiding away, but I don't think I'll bother, now. He starts in on Dani then, saying how she's just the opposite, how he can't even mimic her because he doesn't have a long enough nose to talk out of.

"That's not true," she balks. A gain, it's the drink, but she's far enough gone to be offended. "I speak from the diaphragm. Mum taught me."

"I know your Mum, love. Only thing moves her diaphragm is-"

And I can see where he's going with that so before we get stuck into 'your mum' jokes, "I didn't know you had family left, Dani."

Give me a break, it's the only thing I could think of. I'm not good at small talk. Not enough nights off, I've lost the knack of it. Anyway, whatever I may have said, it doesn't matter; it is quickly and expertly dodged. "Me? What about John-Boy Walton here?"

"Yeah, but his family all think he's dead; it hardly counts." Her eyes slide sideways to Sebastian, lashes fluttering. That laugh is definitely coming from somewhere below the nose. She's way down in Christopher Lee territory there, and it's terrifying. "Wait, wait… Moran, is she implying, by this awful sniggering, that Mr Jonathan Darcy's family still have a brave, strong son?" He stammers, some. In trying to cover up, he ends up telling me everything. Like yes, he still has family who know he exists, no they don't know his new name. They also think he's still in the army, and that he's as straight as any good working class lad could ever hope to be.

Forgive me if I'm only reporting the facts and offering no commentary. I haven't the breath to offer commentary. Does it really need any? I haven't laughed this hard in weeks. He spent Christmas with them. That's where he went. He told me he was having it off every which way on Santorini, but he went home and ate dry turkey and _lied_ through his teeth for days on end. I wondered why he hadn't darkened at all…

Alright, now I can't breathe, this is getting serious now. I slip a little in my seat, and find myself fallen right against Dani. Yeah, that sobers things a bit. Just enough for me to shift away, enough oxygen to mumble an apology. But then, what am I apologizing for? "You're sitting a bit close there, love…"

"Sorry. Didn't think you'd notice. I'm trying to put Blondie off the chase." She nods back over her right shoulder. My eyes follow the line and see him. One of the scammers in the booth keeps looking over at her, searching for eye contact. Blonde, like she said. Angular. Big soft eyes.

Which begs the question, "Why?"

She shrugs. "Not in the mood."

And now I'm not laughing anymore. Now I'm up from that seat next to her and pulling up a chair nearer Moran, where he can protect me if the need arises. He, thankfully, justifies my fear with his own. "Who are you," he mutters, changing his grip on the pool cue (two hands, more secure, ready to use it), "and what have you done with Danielle?"

"It's an imposter," I say.

He says, "It's a pod person."

"It's Mycroft's lot. All the talk and messing about, that's just been stalling, while they had a spook surgically altered to look like our Dani. They taught the poor girl to talk out of her nose-"

"I do _not_ speak out of my-"

"And they sent her to infiltrate us. It's the only thing that makes sense. Quick, mate, check her for op scars."

He starts towards her. Dani rolls her eyes, fishes the hem of her blouse out of her trousers, and turns to show the hard, dark scar on her side. "Do you need to stick your hand in the wound? I'm just not in the mood, that's all. It _does_ happen."

"It does not," I tell her. And that's 'tell'. 'Telling' is a thing you do when you know, when you're sure. "Not unless you were worried about something, and there is nothing still to be worried about. I mean… not unless you know something I don't."

She shakes her head too hard. "Me, dear? Know more than you? Inconceivable." Smiles down into the dregs of her god-knows-whath martini. "One for the road, anybody?"

Just the thought turns my head a little bit. "No more," I groan. "I'm paranoid and doing Christopher Lee impressions."

"That wasn't an impression, mate, it was an insult."

"Shut up, Moran. Give me that cue." So that I can lean on it standing up. Once I'm vertical I'll be fine as far as a cab, but you're never so vulnerable as when you're halfway between sitting and standing. Dani gives it a go, but I hold the cue out to her to help. We counter-balance through the worst of it and manage to get straight together.

"Pair of fucking featherweights," Moran is mumbling.

With her shoes off, Dani goes on ahead, ignoring the blonde fella, saying she'll get a cab of her own and just go home. Well, it's been a long day, and a long drinking session followed. Nothing wrong with wanting her own bed, I suppose. It's the drink, that's all. I'm just paranoid.

* * *

Sherlock

Don't ask me how I ended up back here. I don't know. Psychologically, something to do with where I was left behind before, perhaps. Been a while since I shot up on a park bench, but you have to embrace your clichés, don't you… Anyway, with Primrose Hill, once it's locked up for the night, if you can get over the fence you'll be okay. It's not as if I'm staying the night. I just needed to think and this felt like the place to do it.

Maybe, I said to myself, if I think about it, I'll see something I missed before, and it will make sense. That will happen, and I will happily call Mycroft to apologize.

I haven't had to call him yet. It doesn't make sense. He talked all night and told me nothing that fitted with anything else. And I just kept telling him and telling him, Underwood can't have been any sort of a mastermind. He couldn't have been involved. There are so many reasons why he couldn't have been involved.

For instance, if he himself was the villain of the piece, why did he make such a production number out of stealing the coup from under Mycroft?

"To cover his tracks," Mycroft replied. "Isn't it the age-old dream of the turncoat to be put on his own case?"

If it had been going on for years, how come no one had noticed?

"Smoke and mirrors," Mycroft replied. "He'd been using a civilian computer as a relay for years. That was the man we originally suspected. But all the payments and contracts bear it out."

And if Underwood was so incredibly smart, why wouldn't that have been destroyed?

"Nothing is a threat until somebody is looking for it. Nobody was looking."

So if this is all true and Underwood was what you say he was, who killed him?

"Disgruntled employee?"

That was a bit flippant, no? That was when I knew I wouldn't get anywhere with Mycroft, that he wasn't going to tell me anything. If I hadn't reached that point, I would have gone on to ask how come that disgruntled employee just happened to be the same one who killed Hedegaard and all those people at the police station, and the man by the river who tried to kidnap Mies, and others… Possibly quite a number of others.

He would have asked me how I knew that. There was no proof of that. But there is. I was there for two of those events. I saw those shots fired. Cold and clean, brutally efficient. And while I don't doubt there is more than one such shooter in the world, I can only live in hope that there is only one currently living and working in London. I don't know, maybe that's too much to ask. I know it's not exactly proof, but I saw, I saw it twice, and I can only hope.

Anyway, I just waited for Mycroft to leave, after that. What else was there? I needed him to leave. Needed to score, so I wanted him clear of the area. He was almost out the door when I had to speak, when I had to tell him one last thing. Just so he'd know, whatever the reason he was lying to me, I knew there was a truth to be found. "If Underwood had been involved, you would be dead. I would be dead. You know that."

It was, I believe, Mycroft's last reply that led me here. He said, "We yet might be. But other than that, Sherlock, I'm afraid this is all just paranoia talking."

And now here I sit. Simple logical steps, really. Just because the world is full of nonsense doesn't mean I can't try and be logical in the middle of it.

Footsteps approach. This time, they're unexpected, and I don't recognize them. Nor do they sound like some old tramp shambling towards me. They're soft and in control, these steps. It's too dark to see, so I look in their direction until the person resolves out of the shadow.

"Sally. What are you doing here?"

"Lestrade was on call. Said he saw you sneaking in."

"No. In a city of almost eight million people, it's barely even possible, and besides, Lestrade isn't back on active duty yet. He told me so. No, what really happened is, my brother told him where I was. He himself is bored of babysitting, and so sent you. That's what happened."

She's reached me. Even so close, with the park closed and the lights off, all I can see clearly is her pale jumper catching whatever light there is. Settling herself by my side, "Alright, clever-dick. Hardly matters."

Oh, it does. True things matter. They're getting rarer and rarer. "How did you even get in here?"

"You forgetting what's on my ID? Told them it was missing persons."

"That's only half a lie. Maybe you will make a decent copper someday…"

She doesn't laugh. I meant it as a joke. Maybe not in the best taste, but she's laughed at the same before. Maybe I'm getting it wrong. Maybe I'm paranoid. She just sits there for the longest time. It's not entirely unpleasant.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What's the matter?"

Nothing. Except, everything. "If you felt like every other living being was wrong about something, and you were right, would you question yourself?"

"Of course. But only until I knew I was sure." I think I've helped her since we first met. I hope that's not a vain thing to say. I just don't believe she would have said that before. But then I hate the idea of her learning something from me that I can't keep up anymore. I don't want this to happen to her. I hate it and I don't want it to happen to her. "Why? What's making you question yourself?"

"My brother. I don't know if he really is a slimy, spiteful bastard or if that's just all in my head."

_Very_ quickly, "You shouldn't talk about a brother like that."

She's not looking at me anymore. She's looking straight ahead of herself, like she _can't_ look at me. I've done something so distasteful to her she feels sick, feels she has to limit contact. Now a lot of facts I already knew about her click together to give a full and detailed picture of her life. It's such a wonderful feeling, truly lovely, to have this back again. Absolute truth, no disinformation, no deceit, minimal guesswork.

"_Brother_," I murmur aloud. "Oh, thank God, _brother_. I've been leaning towards parents, but only because you never mention them. They were already gone, weren't they?"

When she looks back, I can see her eyes. They're wide enough to show the white most of the way round, alert enough to make the pupil a huge, glinting mirror, wet enough to glitter. "What are you talking about?"

"The fire. Your parents were already dead by that point. Which left you, brother and little sister with grandmother." Remember? They couldn't visit her in hospital. She told me all this, one way or another. "You and your grandmother escaped first, but you went back. Got your sister out but she was burned, that's why she's in and out of burns wards, why you get so bloody sick of hospitals. But it was your brother, wasn't it? He died and you…"

True things matter. In the dark, I reach toward her. Her hand comes up and slaps my arm away. "You shut up."

"Don't try to save the world because of that. You did enough. No one could ever blame y-"

"You _shut up_!" she shouts, sudden, standing, with her fist pulled back by her face. The angle of her arm hitches back her sleeve. The hardness of the old burning shines.

Heaving for breath, panicking, distraught. Then Sally notices her own blow waiting to fall and shakes her fingers loose again, drops her hand. Stands glaring at me.

She starts to sink, then, rage turning inward, turning into something else. I start to say her name and all I get, again, softer now, "You shut up…"

She backs the first few steps away from me. Before she turns, "_Freak_."


	59. Slipping:Steady

Sherlock

White and aqua green and blinding lights. Let him that hath understanding know it for what it is. I will make no more explanations. No more words. I'm tired of words. Lies are made out of words. Therefore, we'll ban words, and there'll be no more talk, and there will be no words, and no lies, because lies are made out of words. But then again, the lies are in the hearts as well. And in the looks, like when they look at you like they're terribly afraid something is going to happen to you. They aren't. When they look at you like that they are only ever afraid for themselves. You are the something that could happen. They're afraid of you, not for you. So we'll take out their eyes and their tongues and their hearts and then there won't be any more lies.

There's a face I don't know leaning over me, looking into my eyes. Looking at the size of my pupils and their reactions, yeah, probably, but maybe she's looking for answers in the dark down there. There are none, though. I'm not giving her anything. I don't know that I could if I wanted to. I don't want to. I don't think I'll ever want to answer again. Maybe she can see that, though, maybe somewhere in my eyes it's written, all the awful truth of these last late days (I could leave them behind) because I could swear, _swear_, (I could just close my eyes now and leave them behind) could swear she says, "Have you tried not caring?"

But that doesn't sound right. Even the voice that I hear, I recognize it, and I don't recognize this face, so it's probably not a match. It doesn't sound like something somebody in her position would say. She's too annoyed with me to have been so kind. Now, if I were sure of the question, the answer I might give her is that yes, I've tried very hard at not caring, I've gotten damn close to not caring, and then there was a fucking ambulance and it was all ruined forever, right before I could ruin it forever (there's still time, if they'll just let me shut my eyes I can still wreck it all). But I won't answer her. There's a sound that escapes me, but it's not an answer. I don't know what she takes it for, but she leans in even closer, "I called you a right nightmare, that's what."

"I beg your pardon?"

Not me. Not my voice. I will have no more words, and not words like that at the best of times. The voice is somewhere else in the room. It's in a door because the door closes. It's not that I hear this, more that I feel the room seal off, like the first sod being thrown on top of my coffin.

The woman isn't bothered. "You can't be in here," she says, dismissive so that you know she has the authority to mean it. It has an honesty to it. Bless her. I hope she and her loved ones will be well.

That other voice isn't used to being dismissed. It falters. "I'm family."

"And I'm a nurse. Now if you're asking me will he live, yes. But you still can't be in here."

Family. I can't see but I know. Hateful, hateful family, brutal, murderous family, family you can't cut out, a cancer of the blood. I reach for him. Maybe, yes, fine, there can be words. "Mycroft." It doesn't come out right, but that's what I'm saying and that's what matters. "Mycroft." I reach, swinging this arm I don't believe genuinely belongs to me, or at best it was sawn off and recently reattached. It moves from the wrist, like a marionette's, until he takes hold of it. I turn my head away because I don't want to see him, take my arm back, but now he knows to be here, to stay. "Mycroft."

He says, "I'm here," like I'm supposed to be grateful. Like I should care. Like he's supposed to mean anything to me.

There is one word with any meaning. There is one word that can still help me. One word which has truth in it and maybe, God, if I can only make him listen, can bring out the truth in him. Mycroft or God or whoever, I forget. I meant it when I said it. That has to count for something. That has to count. There's only one word I can still, very delicately, very carefully, with incredible concentration, form.

"Moriarty, Mycroft."

"Stop," he says.

"Moriarty," I say again.

A hand on my forehead, trying to turn me towards him. Flinching hurts but I need him to know. His presence sinks, sitting down next to the bed. "Hush," he says. The nurse is still in the room. That's all he's worried about. I'm not stupid. I'm dead, or trying very hard to be, but that doesn't make me stupid. I'd be deader if he'd just tell me, or if I didn't care anymore. I am being held in this world by a single word that still has meaning, because I'm supposed to know. Because if I can't get honesty out of this then no one ever will and no one will even know they were deceived. Somebody has to.

"Moriarty," I say. Again, "Moriarty," and again, "Moriarty." I say it and say it. Keep saying it. Even when there's no sound it's still in my head, whispered, constant, running into itself and over itself. Moriarty.

The nurse is sent out of the room. This time Mycroft speaks with authority and she's the one who isn't used to it, she's the one who falters, and just goes. I say again, to remind him there's only this one thing, "Moriarty, Mycroft."

"I don't know how much you can understand just now," he says. He takes my hand. I try to pull free again, but he keeps hold of it. Tight. Not a comfort. Too much like a threat. The lies are in everything they do. I understand everything right now. "But I'll tell you anyway, and hope something gets through. The so-called _proof_ you're clinging to is a mere figment. It was the invention of a madman. Hedegaard had created an elaborate fantasy to justify his murders. In this dream world, he was sanctioned by one Mr Moriarty. It was found, in his apartment, a childish scrawl in journals and notebooks. It started as a story, triggered by some television programme, of all things. He was obsessed with it, apparently. You probably know more of the details than I do. That's all it is. All Moriarty is. The schizoid dream of a dead lunatic."

"You, then," I tell him. "You."

It's true or it's false.

The word, repeated in my head and from my lips so many times, is losing its shape, melting at the edges. The only word that still meant anything has had all its meaning worked away. Sanded off, and the letters themselves left smooth and beautiful and meaningless.

It's true or it's false. If he was lying to me I wouldn't even know. What's the point?

Success, then, to all of those who have counselled me not to care. I hope you're all so terribly proud of yourselves.

* * *

Jim

Hell is a hangover. I'm convinced. This is what I'm going to be stuck with for all eternity after I die. And I do mean, _this_, specifically. The hangover after a night of incredible happiness and with so much to celebrate, and the hangover where you know you've got things to do after putting them off as long as you possibly could. This is what Hell's going to be. But at least I'm preparing myself for it.

Moran, by the way, after all his big talk about featherweights, after standing up unaided and thinking he was the dog's cheesy Wotsits for it, passed out last night not four steps from his own threshold, on the living room rug. There he lies still, and except that he fell on his front and I can see him rise and fall with breathing, I'd be worried. Me, I did rather well. Made it all the way up the stairs and into a bed and everything. And look at me, all awake and all. Hell can come for me when it will, I am _more_ than ready.

But I bet in Hell there won't be a filter jug of cold, cold water in the fridge, and a pint glass, and the laptop will be broken when I reach for it. Cross that bridge when I get to it, though. For now, for this morning, I'm perfectly alright, thank you. Well, getting there.

I can't stay at Moran's forever. Sad it may be, but that's how it is. Quite apart from his haphazard approach to cleaning (which I'm doing my level best not to mention but there have been up to three people living here on and off lately), I need a new office. Somewhere I can get back to work. Somewhere for _me_ again.

I've been looking, of course, while it's all been going on, but there hasn't been time to do anything about it. All that preparation done, however, and this part becomes much easier. All I have to do now is clear enough of my throat to sound human and start booking viewings.

Then I type up a list of addresses and email it to Dani. A minute or so later, my phone rings. Naturally I forgot to put it on silent. There always has to be something forgotten, doesn't there…? I answer it fast to stop that noise. It gets in my head and bounces around inside like it's trying to break me open, like I'm going to explode. I answer.

"If you're asking me to move in with you, I'm going to have to say no."

That… that was a joke, wasn't it? She sounds alert, and slightly out of breath, and just made a joke. How? How when she was only two rounds behind the rest of us and drinking bloody cocktails? "That's not why I sent you that but… Sorry, are you out running?"

"Not really. Quick jog, just to clear my head. I'm on my way over; chat when I see you." A quick jog? A quick jog from Camden to fecking bloody near Hampstead? I'm going to kill her. With a knife. I'm in a hitman's kitchen, I bet you any man's money the knives are sharp. I bet the fecking _spoons_ are sharp in Moran's kitchen. That's it. I'm going to end her with a spoon. Jogging to clear her head and poor Moran still unconscious in front of the fireplace. Never heard the like of it, the cheeky bitch.

Suppose, though, if I was really going to kill her, I'd be getting ready for it now. I'm not. I'm downing more ice water and ghosting round the house-hunting sites, in case I've missed any potential candidates. I think the list I have is good, though. There's one in particular, and just from the pictures I'm hoping it'll work out.

It's nice, you know, to be able to think about things like this again. All that excitement was well and good. Believe me, I've had a very good time indeed. A few dodgy moments, certainly, but the closer the shave the smoother the face. It all balances out in the end. This, though, this feeling now, when I can concentrate on everyday things again, I like this too. Can't lose. I know in a while it'll go off me and I'll want a bit of fun again, but for now? It's what Moran calls the afterglow. Thankfully, he's normally not talking about me when he says that. But I know what he means. Relaxed. Content. Easy like a Sunday fecking morning.

Dani lets herself in when she arrives. Calls hello to anyone who might hear. I'm about to answer her when we're both distracted by a noise, from somewhere in the vicinity of the fireplace. It's something between a groan and a sob. I've heard people being stabbed make that noise.

By the time I get there Moran is on all fours. Dani's trying to help him up, but it's really just moral support she's there for. He rolls over. She's pushing the sweat from his brow. This is the mistake. She should have tended to her own first. I saw his face when he turned over and he looked really quite lucid. But the sight of her in sportswear and flushed with fresh exertions, that's when he scrambles for the door, for the stairs; that's what makes him sick.

Still sat where he left her on the floor, Danielle looks up at me. "Not the effect I usually have on men the morning after."

"So will you or me go and hold his hair back?

From upstairs, as loud as he dares to groan, "Fucking heard that."

"I'll be honest, I was contemplating your utensil-based murder myself."

She shrugs. Remembers who I am and stops waiting for me to help her up, just climbs to her feet. "Couldn't sleep."

"Funny, everybody else was having trouble waking up."

"I can help with that. I brought in good coffee. Left it on the table in the hall."

"Why?"

"Well, I ran in here. Seb looked dead." Yeah, I could question all the _running_ that's been done. But now that I'm thinking about it, it does smell like really good coffee she's brought, and pastry too in that paper bag if I'm not much mistaken. I retrieve these tributes gratefully and take them back to the kitchen with me. "About the list, then. I take it you want me to go there, break in, tell you how easy it is to break in?"

"And, if applicable, how easy it would be to make it less easy to break in. Also how easy it would be to break out unnoticed, should the need arise."

She's not so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed she doesn't have to think about that for a second. Sits down hard while it sinks in, eventually nods along. It's as quick and smart a reaction as I could reasonably expect this morning.

I've got a reaction of my own building up nicely. It's in the post. I'm not going to hurry it. Let it take it's time, grown, be proven and definite before I say anything. I don't want to give anything away, but it's something to do with people who can't sleep and over-exercise and eat indulgent, comforting things like chocolate muffins at breakfast time, and what usually causes people to act in that way.


	60. Victory:Defeat

Jim

There's still half a muffin on the table when Moran comes back, and Dani goes to use the shower. She lost interest in the chocolate after the first couple of minutes. Maybe it wasn't having the effect she was after. Moran thinks nothing of this. He just sees it, thinks it's the best idea he's ever had, and gets stuck in. That, and the coffee, and the ice water, the nausea seems to have gone off him since his purge.

"When she asks who ate her breakfast," I tell him, "you better not point at me."

"She knows I need the rush, first thing."

"Does the Honey Monster know you're seeing Chocolate behind his back?"

"No. And so long as he stays in the cupboard he doesn't need to. Nobody needs to get hurt here, Jim, and we can all be happy."

As delightful as this whole exchange has been, it's over now. Because wet, running feet are slapping their way downstairs, and Dani's ringtone is cutting shrilly through it all. She flies into the kitchen, holding her phone and the towel around her with one hand and the doorpost in the other so she doesn't crash into Moran's back. The weight of the water in her hair whips it around, throwing an arc of cold droplets right across the room and me and him like the fecking Dulux dog. Moran, all of a sudden, is more awake than he really needs to be and very angry about it. "What the fuck?!" and I must say, I second that emotion.

But she puts the phone down on the table, points at the screen as she's getting her breath back. 'MH', it says, on the caller display. 'MH'.

"Surrender call," I say, mostly to myself.

"Speaker?" Dani breathes.

I don't even have it in me to rise to the goad, to the implication that she would ever have done otherwise. "Yes, please," that's all I say. Then I join my hands, and put my face down against them, so that I can hold my mouth closed. Not entirely sure I trust myself to be in the room for this.

She answers with the formal, too-busy-for-this-shite, "Mies speaking."

"This is Holmes."

"Ah. Good morning, Mycroft. And how are you?"

"Quite well." Oh, what a beautiful lie. Brave and elegant, trembling with the effort of it. Brave man and his beautiful, beautiful lie… "I thought you ought to know, it's all in motion."

Danielle cuts her eyes to me. I wish she wouldn't. It's too much like being given a present, too difficult to contain myself. She says, "Clarify that for me, would you?"

"It is as you and your… _employer_ would have it."

"Oh, you're going with our version of the tale. Very good, I knew you'd come round." Then, a little unnecessary trill, off-script, something I'm afraid I don't quite understand, "Just out of interest, what convinced you? You seemed so adamant yesterday you'd get around us."

"I… I put it to someone else. Someone whose intelligence I respect. I've concluded you can make it very difficult for me to escape suspicion."

"Unless, of course, you do as you're told." Then, like somebody with real, genuine interest in how he's getting on, like an old friend, "So how's it going over with the brass, then, your little fairytale?"

"Not without difficulty. It will, however, be made to work."

I am nodding to myself. She sees and translates, darkly telling him, "Too right it will." Across the table, Moran taps his watch. Must be coming up on the time limit for having the call traced. I wasn't even thinking of that until now. Dani nods to him. Me, I grab the paper bag from the pastries, and a pen off the windowsill, and start to ask for one last gift. While I'm writing, though, she has a question of her own.

"And the other matter?"

"It's being handled. He won't be a problem, before long."

In the corner of my eye (I'm still writing) her brow furrows. "Nothing unfortunate to befall him, I hope."

"Rehabilitation. His condition makes him easy to discredit."

It looks like she'd like to carry that line of conversation on a little further. But Moran shoves his watch under her nose at one side, and me the paper bag at the other. Out of time, and let's get back to the script. There might not be a real, physical script as such, but we all know she's way off it. Mostly because I don't have a clue what they're talking about.

Like a UN interpreter, she reads and polishes and speaks all at once.

"By the way, my employer would like you to know he's really no threat to you. In fact, he wishes you all the best in your rapidly advancing career. He sees this as having been a very successful joint venture, and can only hope we've been setting a precedent for the future."

Which is much more eloquent than my scrawly, heartfelt, _Tell the bastard I couldn't have done it without him, must hook up again sometime. And remind him the higher a monkey climbs, all you see is his arse._

"Over my dead body," is Mycroft's reply, and I swear to you in that precise moment, three pairs of eyes turn upward, three pairs of lips are sealed, three hearts beg Satan to sit in the back…

"Cheer up, Mycroft. I've got a feeling you have a very good day ahead of you. Remember, you're still alive, which is more than can be said for some."

It's hard to tell if he slams the phone down before she cuts the line or if it's vice versa. It's hard to care. I tell Danielle while she's sitting there, with water from her hair running down her face, "You know, I've never watched you manage somebody like that before. Do you want to do more of that? Or would that be too much like secretarial work?"

"Excuse me," she mutters, "but I'm freezing."

Quick as you like, she's up from the table, leaving nothing except the drips, and the puddle from her feet.

Not the reaction I was expecting. Then again, she _was_ shivering. And it clearly takes it out of her, bitching mercilessly at somebody that way. I don't know, maybe I was wrong to put it to her as a possible career path. I've scared her off. But my God, though, did you hear him? How can you be thinking about anything else when you _heard_ him? Defeat. I know what it sounds like now. I know how Priam sounded when he laid down his arms, the precise tone of voice that ought to be used for 'Et tu, Brute?', the qualities a classical performer might bring to _Losing My Religion_. Moran heard it all too. He's still looking at his watch, actually. Says, "That was, like, _three seconds_ shy of the inside limit and everything. Y'know when you said I could have a go with him once he was ours?"

"Leave it a while, would you? Oppress him too quickly and we're only inviting revolution."

"Still want that guillotine?"

We laugh. I don't foresee much ahead that isn't laughing, if I'm honest. But when Dani comes back from drying off, guess she's not doing. I'm almost offended, actually. But she's back on the phone. This time calling herself a cab. I don't know why. Most of her hair is still damp. She's dressed, but only haphazardly, things she's left here over the last couple of days. Her running shoes, and a t-shirt I could swear is Moran's.

"I'm not going to be about for a while," she says.

"_You_ can't take a holiday," I tell her, nodding at Moran, "_He's_ taking a holiday. Somebody needs to come flat-hunting with me."

"Oh, I'll still do the security trials, I'll let you know how that goes. But I have something else to take care of. You can phone me if you need me, but other than that-"

And she's starting out of the room again, like that's it, like that's enough. "_Hold_ the feck on! What are you talking about, what do you have to _take care_ of that's so important?"

I'm a little shocked, when she turns back. She's not crying, exactly, but it's close. It's torment, crumpling her face, making her careless. She says, "We've left him with nothing, sweet fuck all, absolutely nothing." This is what stops a drunk woman from sleeping, makes her go running with a hangover, makes her eat chocolate for breakfast. It's a guilty conscience.

"_Mycroft_? The _idea _was to leave him with nothing."

There's no reply to that. She didn't hear it.

Moran looks at me when the front door slams behind her. "Fuck's that about?" he says. And I'm really glad I'm not the only one who doesn't know.

"Y'know what? So long as she shows up with a new coffee machine soon's I find somewhere…"

* * *

Sherlock

Mycroft arrived a little after lunch. I only know this because I could smell hospital food getting wheeled up and down the corridor to the main ward. I myself am still on liquids only, and even those I don't really want.

I don't know if I'm really safe to be moved out of here or if he just asked the doctors over and over again until they realized he was taking me away from here, whether they (or I, or anybody else for that matter) like it or not. I heard him coming. Shut my eyes. There's no danger in shutting my eyes, not like there was last night. Wish there was. I'm pretending to sleep now, but it hurts, remembering how close I was last night to something that has to be better than this, even if it turns out to be infinite darkness and nothing more. That was me, and my decision. It should have been left to me. If he hadn't come in and started talking all that absolute shit I could have done it. That nurse wouldn't have saved me. She's been in a couple of times since. She doesn't care about me. I am an unfortunate blip. I am not part of her vocation, simply part of her work. If he had just left me alone last night I might have just closed my eyes and slipped.

Now, hard as I might try, I can't even slip into sleep.

He's left me like that for what feels like hours. But I'm not moving and my mind, entirely unbidden, is racing days ahead and days behind and worlds away in every direction. Might be ten or twenty minutes. Now he gets bored. Says, as gently as he can, "Breathing patterns, Sherlock."

"Oh, of course."

It always was the breathing patterns. We were children and he would know I wasn't really asleep because of the breathing patterns, and tell Mother I'd stayed up again, reading with a torch under the covers. An old game. I never did bother to get the hang of it.

"Where are we going?" I ask, not ready to open my eyes yet. He makes the very slightest noise of interest, as if he doesn't understand. "You were asking the doctors if I could be moved. So where are we going?"

"Nowhere special."

"God, you just never stop, do you? It's just what happens when you open your mouth, by default. Some people talk and some people, _you_, just lie."

He shifts. Maybe re-crosses his legs or some other pointless little nervous twitch. "I've made the arrangements for you to be taken care of privately."

"You promised. You told me you wouldn't do this. That's the only reason we were even back in touch, you said you wouldn't do this-"

"It's not reh-"

"Yes it is," I say over him, not even wanting the end of that word. He stops. "Yes it is." I've stopped him completely, it seems. _I_ know what he's going to say next – the old speech, how I don't know what's best for myself right now, how last night's 'incident' (that's the word he'll use) has changed the game considerably – but he doesn't know it yet. And I don't want to hear it. I look ahead and I can only see this ending his way. So I sit up in the bed, finally open my eyes, and look about for the clothes I came in with. "Fine. Let's go." I'm still slurring. Can't help that. Physiological after-effect, part of an inhibited set of motor-functions. Same reason my ankle turns beneath me when I try to stand. I don't quite fall, holding onto the bed. "I'm fine," I tell him.

But it's enough reason for him to have the bloody wheelchair brought up while I get dressed. That's fine too. It's all fine. Let the smarmy bastard wheel me along, that's fine, less work for me to do, and he's the one has to be seen with me, it's all fine, more than fine. Wonderful. Honestly, I couldn't care less. In the chair, I can be nodding out and nobody has to pick me up. This is absolutely great. Don't worry about me, I'm grand.

"Nice quiet little place, is it?" I ask him. "Up the country somewhere, lots of fresh country air, country peace and quiet, calm, quiet _cunt-_ry people with soft voices and rubber-soled shoes, is it? Tell me, am I to be put away for my addiction or for being all mad and paranoid and _dangerous_?"

"Sherlock, please."

"It's alright, Mycroft, it's fine. I just want to know. And I want you to know I'm onto you. I just want you to remember that, all the time. I won't be forgetting it, so why should you?"

"This isn't you talking, it's that _stuff_ in your veins."

"Oh, go on, say something stronger. Really. Make you feel better, wait and see." It's as you might expect; another car with darkened windows, discreetly parked, discreetly waiting, discreetly harbouring a staff of two, which is a bit much, don't you think? Especially since Mycroft seems to think he's getting into the back, with me. "Please," I tell him, "don't feel like you need to accompany me."

He thinks about giving me an argument. Then he hangs near the open door and won't look at me. That look again. I'll kill Mies if I get hold of her. She started that, and it's been like a virus. That fear that wants so much to be about me, but it's not, it's all for him… "You won't understand this now," he says, "But this is best."

"Of course it is, Mycroft. I told you. It's fine."

I pull the door shut and curl on my side on the back seat. And I intend to stay this way until some delicate orderly in a white uniform peels me bodily from this very spot. They want a lost cause. I am more than inclined to give it to them.

And, for the record, just while we're talking about things which are fine and lovely and which I'm absolutely okay with, the drive is quite nice. Soothing. The engine noise is a low purr, very reassuring. Once we're out of the city there's no stopping and starting, just a long, gentle drive at a good clip, the rumble of the road rocking me gently when I need no encouragement whatever.

If the two in the front would shut up we'd be _flying_… Talking about other cars on the road, of all things. There's a silver Aston Martin that really must be a thing to behold, because they will not shut up. I'm not half-listening, though, there could be something else to keep their attention.

And then something happens, and we stop.

I sit up, if only to see why. I was not led to expect any stops.

Out the window, I see their beloved silver Aston on the road ahead of us, with the bonnet up and spewing smoke. They've stopped, and one of them is getting out, to help.

There's something just a little off. Don't ask me what it is, and always remember that I'm a paranoid person and not to be trusted.

One of my keepers gets out and walks up to it, to the driver's side window. Rather than a grateful face, a small spray can appears. Something is shot into his face and he drops, perfectly unconscious, to the ground. My first thought is that I ought to find out the contents of that can. Then, predictably enough, my other keeper gets out to run to him. Predictably enough, he suffers the same fate.

So that's me stranded anyway. Or it's a kidnap and I'm off on a magical mystery tour. I lie back down. Bored already, if I'm honest.

Before I know it, the door next to me is opened. "Do me a favour and don't spoil the surprise; put a bag over my head," I tell them.

"Gladly, dear. Even I can't bring myself to call you gorgeous today and I lie for a living."

I know the voice but don't quite believe it. I only lift my head enough to check. Then put it down again, groaning, "Not you. I thought this was over. Please Christ, not you…"

Mies sits down on the edge of the seat, looking out into the road. I have no idea what she'll say if someone else passes the two guards' crumpled forms and the two cars, and no doubt she'd pull it off. It doesn't happen, though. She lights two cigarettes and passes one back to me. It's not what I want, but it'll do.

"You can still go to rehab," she says. "I'll drive you, if that's what you want."

"What's the alternative?"

I feel her shrug. Nonchalant, offering an idea and no more than an idea, "Fella I know owes me a couple of quickie passports."

"Why? I mean, not why does he owe you, but why would you-?"

"Because y has a long tail and two branches." I don't know what to do. Please don't think I'm so far gone that this feels like a rescue. I don't know what to do. It doesn't matter what I say. There are no good decisions left to make.

* * *

[A/N - The _end, _shock-horror! Thanks for being along with me, and I really do hope you've enjoyed it. Whatever you thought, if you've come this far with me, I hope you'll let me know. It's been a pleasure, as always, to serve. Thanks so much to everybody. Usually I would do special dedications, but I figure all those folk know who they are!]


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